by Derek Fee
‘Boss.’
Wilson looked up and saw Browne at the door.
‘We have Ray Wright downstairs. We haven’t located Best yet but we have the uniforms looking out for him. We’ll have the search warrants by this evening.’
Wilson picked up Wright’s file and stood up. ‘Let’s not keep friend Ray waiting.’
Ray Wright was lounging in one of the chairs when Wilson and Browne entered the interview room. Unlike a first timer, Wright was completely at ease. From his file Wilson knew that Wright was fifty-four years old although his rugged features gave the impression that he was older. His nose was bulbous and blue and his skin was pitted and mottled. His red hair was cut close to his scalp and his ample stomach hung over the belt of his cheap jeans. He wore a royal blue Glasgow Rangers hoodie.
Wilson dropped the file on the table and sat down facing Wright. Browne took the seat beside Wilson. ‘Thank you for coming in today,’ Wilson said as soon as he was seated.
Wright sat forward. ‘I wasn’t given much choice.’
Wilson ignored the remark. ‘Rory, the preamble please.’
Browne switched on the recording equipment, gave the time and date and the participants.
Wilson opened the file and flicked through the papers. ‘Not your first dance.’
Wright didn’t respond.
This is not going to be easy, Wilson thought. ‘Can you tell me where you were on the evening of April 26th?’
‘No idea, I’d have to look at my diary.’ Wright smiled.
‘We have reason to believe that you were in East Belfast on that evening.’
‘No comment.’
Wilson took out a picture of the warehouse. ‘Have you ever been in this building?’
Wright looked at the photo. ‘No comment.’
‘We have reason to believe that a man was murdered in this warehouse on that evening. And that you were present at that murder.’
‘No comment.’
‘Did you along with Davie Best remove a body from that warehouse?’
‘No comment.’
Wilson had only one tactic left. ‘We already know who pulled the trigger and killed Sammy Rice. We’re just filling in the gaps. We’re going to place you in that warehouse and we’re going to find CCTV footage of you and Best removing a body from that location. Whoever gives us the first information is going to get the best deal. We have the murderer. You only moved the body. That’s interfering with a police investigation. At most you’ll get a year. You help us out and it might be less.’ Wright was staring at the ceiling as he spoke.
‘No comment.’
Wilson closed the file. ‘Your choice.’
‘I’m leaving,’ Wright stood up. He bent down over the recorder. ‘The next time you bring me here I’ll be under arrest, or I won’t be here,’ he shouted. He smiled at the two policemen. ‘I hope your recording got that.’ Then he marched to the door and was through it.
Wilson and Browne watched the door close behind Wright’s back.
Browne shut off the recording equipment. ‘I’d give a month’s pay to take that smirk off the bastard’s face.’
Wilson stood up. ‘Like I said it wasn’t his first dance. As long as he and Best sing dumb, we’re not going to find Rice’s body. And if we don’t find the body, neither of them is going to jail. From reading the files, I thought that Wright might be the easier to break. But now I’m not confident that either of them is going to break.’
‘What can we do?’ Browne asked.
Wilson started for the door. ‘Find Rice ourselves.’ A lot easier said than done, he thought as he opened the interview room door.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Thus far it had been a bad day and the prospect was that it wouldn’t get better soon. Cummerford had failed to identify Willie Rice as the man who had deposited her in the housing estate where she had been found. The identification would have confirmed Wilson’s theory that Willie Rice was the person who had buried Cummerford’s mother in Ballynahone bog. That in turn would help to confirm his theory that Rice might somehow be involved in the Evans and Bowe murders. It was such a neat package that Cummerford spoiled. But Wilson wasn’t about to ditch his theory that easily. To his mind, Willie Rice would be the obvious person that Lizzie would turn to in order to dispose of a body. The involvement in the Evans and Bowe murders was a leap in the dark but it wasn’t inconceivable. On his return to his office in the murder squad room, he ploughed through his emails. It was comforting to see that there wasn’t a word from HQ concerning the disappearance of Jennifer Bowe’s body. He hated being right when it meant a further drop in his respect for the venal arseholes that inhabited the upper reaches of the organisation he served. He picked up the phone and called Reid. She was enthusiastic about his invitation to lunch and it was the first positive response he had all morning. They settled on the Lantern in Wellington Place ostensibly because it was equidistant from the station and the Royal Victoria. Another reason for his agreement to the venue was the fact that Kate had never mentioned a desire to go there. They arrived more or less together just before twelve-thirty and were immediately shown to their table by a pleasant young man.
‘What’s the event?’ Reid said as soon as they were seated and menus were being examined.
‘Bad day at the office.’ Wilson liked the look of the menu but he was seriously not hungry.
She put down the menu and leaned forward. ‘Tell mother about it.’
He smiled and tried to tear his eyes off her cleavage. ‘It started at Hydebank Wood this morning.’ His story was only interrupted by the waiter taking their order for lunch. He settled for a club sandwich and Reid asked for a Caesar salad. They both opted for still water as the liquid accompaniment to their food. He finished his description of his interview with Ray Wright before touching his sandwich.
‘Don’t you ever get a case of a husband murdering his wife or vice versa?’ she said when he finished.
He looked around the restaurant, which was full. At the tables, people were conversing and laughing while enjoying a meal together. ‘Look around you. This is normality. People enjoying themselves with their friends, loved ones and colleagues. Everybody just wants to have a decent life. I bet I’m the only one here who was digging up dead bodies in Ballynahone bog a couple of days ago. And I bet none of these people has ever looked at a thirty-year old corpse that’s had its face shot off or its head cracked open. For Christ’s sake, sometimes I get fed up dealing with the shit end of life.’
‘It’s what we do, Ian.’ She forked some salad into her mouth. ‘When I was in the Congo, when something outrageous happened we used to say TIA. It stood for This is Africa. Here we should just say TINI and continue doing our jobs.’
‘OK.’ He bit into his club sandwich. ‘I’ll get down off the soapbox. There’s a reason I asked you for lunch today.’
She leaned forward. ‘You’ve booked a hotel for the afternoon.’
‘I wish.’
‘I would have had to refuse anyway. I have a busy afternoon. What’s the problem I can help you with?’
‘When will McComber’s body be released?’
‘I’m finished with it. There’ll be an inquest but I doubt if the coroner will want the body kept. It mightn’t be for months. Why?’
He was always amazed how pathologists could be so cold when speaking about corpses. ‘I want to make sure she has a proper burial. We let her down all those years ago and I want to make up in some small way.’
She slid her hand forward on the table until it covered his. ‘You’re like one of those sweets that’s hard on the outside but has a soft centre. I’ll call the coroner this evening and convince him to release the body immediately.’
It felt good with her hand on his. ‘Hold on a while, I have to make some arrangements. And Maggie wants to see her.’
‘That won’t be fun for her.’
‘I already told her that.’
‘I have all the contacts with the
undertakers. Leave it with me to make the funeral arrangements. Have you spoken to the governor of Hydebank yet?’
‘It’s on the agenda for this afternoon.’
‘So, we’ll never know who buried her in Ballynahone.’ She pushed her empty plate away.
‘I already have a theory about that.’ He had only eaten half his sandwich.
‘And he’s still alive?’
‘He is and I intend to get him.’
The waiter came to their table. Reid looked up into his face. ‘We’ll have two black coffees and pack up the half sandwich. My friend will get peckish before the evening is out.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Davie Best’s inside man at the PSNI had informed him that Richie Simpson was sitting in a cell having spilled his guts on what he knew of Sammy Rice’s murder. At midday, he received a call from Ray Wright, which caused him to detour past Ray’s base in Portadown. They met in the Orange Hall on Carlston Street, a fine, old red-bricked building inaugurated in 1908. It is one of the most prestigious Orange Halls outside Belfast. The Portadown Room at the hall was Wright’s favourite meeting place. It was a place where it would be impossible for their conversation to be overheard. Best wasn’t as much into the Loyalist crap as Wright. He would have preferred to meet in a quiet pub or restaurant. Wright was still old-school, he wasn’t. Plan A had failed. He would have preferred to find Simpson and silence him permanently. It was time to move ahead to Plan B and that entailed the Peelers never discovering where Rice’s body was. It wasn’t part of Best’s career plan to spend time in jail. It might be a rite of passage for some of the idiots who bought into the professional criminal mystique. He wasn’t in the McGreary gang to play at being a hard man. He was there to make money, lots of money. He didn’t give a shit about the preservation of the Union. The only preservation that interested Best was his own. He realised he had to play the Loyalist card to keep guys like Wright onside but he had zero interest in the politics of the province. They met in a room that was festooned with Loyalist paraphernalia. A Union Jack sat on the table at the head of the room and the Red Hand flag of Ulster and the Lodge flag adorned the back wall on either side of a picture of Queen Elizabeth II. Wright looked like he had spent a sleepless night. It was always the same with the first man pulled in. Although Best knew that Wright had probably never heard of the prisoner’s dilemma, his colleague knew instinctively that when things were going ass-over-tit, it was wise to be the first to jump ship in an effort to land in the closest lifeboat. Wright had insisted that in his interview with Wilson, he had played according to Best’s instructions. For sure Simpson would put him and Wright at the warehouse on the night Sammy was murdered. If he and Wright kept to the script, they were there but they had nothing to do with Sammy’s murder or the disposal of the body. For the moment, the script suggested that they stay dumb. The ‘no comment’ strategy gave them the opportunity to find out what the Peelers knew while giving nothing away. After leaving Wright, Best drove to Belfast and instead of checking in at the Queen’s Tavern he decided to go straight to Tennent Street and present himself for interview. When he got there he found that Wilson was out somewhere and some dogsbody put him in an interview room. McGreary would be doing his nut if he knew that Best was being interviewed. ‘Slim Ger’ had been inside and it had the desired effect on him. There was no way he was going back. Best knew that he was playing a dangerous game with McGreary. But ten years plodding around Iraq and Afghanistan had taught him that life was a dangerous game. McGreary had dropped the Loyalist shit a long time ago. As soon as peace was declared, McGreary had gone from Loyalist paramilitary leader to criminal gang boss. And while McGreary was not a man to be trifled with, he had grown fat and complacent. Best knew that with his own crew and his contacts in Europe the sky would be the limit. He also knew that confrontation with McGreary was just around the corner.
Wilson received a text as he was leaving Wellington Place. Davie Best had walked into Tennent Street and presented himself for interview. The cocky wee bastard, Wilson thought. But he knew that Best had every reason to be cocky. They needed Sammy’s body to put Best and Wright behind bars and they were a long way from having it. Sammy had probably been murdered some two months previously. Depending on where the body was there would already be substantial decomposition. Any DNA that might be on the body would be disappearing day-by-day. A point would be reached where even if they found the body they would not be able to tie Best and Wright to it. The outlook was not favourable but that didn’t mean that they had to stop trying. Wilson looked through the small glass panel in the door to the interview room. Davie Best sat at the table. He wore a light leather jacket over a black polo neck shirt and jeans and he was totally at ease. He was a man without a problem in the world. Breaking Davie Best was going to be very difficult indeed. Wilson turned to Browne and Davidson. ‘You’re on.’
‘You’re not taking this interview?’ The tension was obvious in Browne’s tone.
Wilson turned the handle on the door. ‘This is your ball game. I’m sure that you and Peter can handle it.’ He pushed the door open and moved to the next room where he could watch the proceedings through a two-way mirror.
Browne and Davidson entered the room and sat at the table directly across from Best. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Browne and this is Detective Constable Davidson.’ There was a nervous catch in Browne’s voice. ‘Do you wish to have a legal representative present?’
‘Do I need one?’ Best’s body uncoiled and he leaned forward towards the two policemen.
Browne looked at Davidson who stared straight ahead. He was on his own. ‘You are not being arrested but we think that you may be able to help us with our enquiries into the apparent disappearance of Sammy Rice.’
‘Then I won’t be needing legal representation.’ Best was wondering why the big boss wasn’t taking the interview.
Browne opened a file. ‘Where were you on the evening of April 26th this year?’
‘No idea, probably playing snooker or watching football on TV.’
Browne took out a photograph of the warehouse and placed it on the table. ‘What would you say if I told you that we have evidence that you were in this warehouse?’
Best looked carefully at the photo. It was the same one Wilson had shown him. ‘I’ve been in that warehouse. In fact I had a bad nosebleed there. Maybe it was on the evening you said.’
‘So, you were there on the evening of the 26th.’
‘That’s not what I said.’
‘What would you say if I told you that we have evidence that Sammy Rice was murdered in that warehouse on the evening of April 26th and that you were present?’
Best sat up straight with a look of indignation on his face. ‘Are you having a laugh? I don’t care who told you that bit of fiction but I know nothing about any murder.’
‘We have blood evidence that places you in the warehouse,’ Browne continued. ‘And we have direct evidence that you were present when Sammy Rice was murdered.’
Best decided to throw his ace card onto the table. ‘How do you know that Sammy was murdered? Do you have his body?’
Browne looked at Davidson but got no encouragement.
Best stood up. ‘When you can prove that there was a murder that I’m supposed to have been present at, you can give me a call. I’ll be more than happy to drop by to answer any of your questions.’ He sauntered slowly to the door and left the two policemen sitting with egg on their faces.
One minute after Best left, the door opened and Wilson entered the room.
‘I’m sorry, boss.’ Browne fumbled with his file. ‘I screwed it up.’
‘It was a no-win situation,’ Wilson said. ‘Best isn’t the usual Belfast headbanger. Read his file. He probably had training in the army to resist interrogation. Keep working on the CCTV. It won’t take us all the way but it will increase the pressure.’ He could see from Browne’s face that he wasn’t a believer. ‘We may not get a result on Sammy but we’re going to
give it everything we’ve got.’
Browne could see that the remark was aimed at him. He wanted so badly to bring Best down. ‘Sorry, boss, I thought I could have done better. I’m so bloody frustrated knowing that the bastard was involved but not being able to prove it.’
Wilson slapped his new sergeant on the shoulder. ‘Believe me, you couldn’t have done better. We may not be able to prove that Best was involved today but that could all change tomorrow. I always thought that Wright would be the weak link but Best has obviously trained him. Wright will continue with the “no comment” strategy while Best will talk to us in order to find out what we know. He’s holding all the high cards. As long as Sammy is hidden away somewhere, we’re on the losing team. We find him and the roles are completely reversed. Now find me some CCTV footage.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
Willie Rice hadn’t slept well. In fact, he had hardly slept at all. Every time he closed his eyes films seemed to be playing on the inside of his eyelids. Sometimes they were in black and white, and sometimes a vivid colour splashed across his vision. The black and white films contained people that in general he didn’t recognise. When he opened his eyes the films stopped but they started again as soon as he closed his eyes again. He was sure that there was something wrong with his brain. About two o’clock in the morning he finally gave up on the idea of sleep. He had no idea what was happening to him but he knew that he didn’t like it. Maybe he was going loony. Perhaps all the drinking he had done was catching up on him. He wondered whether this was the delirium tremens that he heard about. Next he’d be seeing giant spiders climbing the walls and pink elephants in the corner of the room. He wasn’t going that route. Over the past few days he had been coming to a conclusion. In the middle of the sleepless night, he had finally made the decision. He was surprised how good it felt when he saw the road ahead clearly. For the first time since Sammy disappeared, he felt calm. All he had to do now was to follow the course of action he had decided on. He had spent the night in the old house in Malvern Street, for much of the night he sat in the front room staring at the spot where Lizzie had been murdered. He had sworn that he would kill the bitch that murdered his wife but it was a promise that would go unfulfilled. But that didn’t mean he had to check out like a wimp. It was funny. He’d lost interest in Lizzie years ago. It was around the time that Lizzie lost interest in him. He couldn’t remember when they’d last had sex. Then there was Sammy. They’d been growing apart for years. Lately, his son had developed the habit of treating him like the village idiot. But Willie Rice was no village idiot. He’d been the leader of men in the most violent era of Ulster’s history. Now, he was a physical and mental wreck. In two weeks, he would be sixty-five years old. At least he’d made it further than a lot of the lads he’d grown up with. There was one more decent thing he had to do before he checked out. He downed a fistful of painkillers and picked up his Beretta. He checked that there were eight cartridges in the magazine. Today was the day he was going to put things right.