by Derek Fee
Gerry McGreary also had a sleepless night. Something was bothering him but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Business had never been better. He’d always felt that some day Sammy was going to launch a war against him to get control of the drugs business in West Belfast. But Sammy was pushing up daisies somewhere or feeding the fish in the Irish Sea. McGreary didn’t much care where he was. He was making money hand over fist and soon he would get rid of the last vestiges of the Rice gang. Everything in the garden was rosy. So what was with the sleepless night? When he played for Linfield and was less than half the size he was now, he was famous for being able to smell the wind during a game. He seemed to have an instinct for finding the opponent’s weakness and putting the point of the attack at that specific spot. It was a gift that he carried into his criminal career. His career was approaching its zenith. The big gangs from across the water and Europe were already courting him. So much money was flowing in that he didn’t know what to do with it. The only cloud on the horizon was the pressure from below. He knew from his limited grasp on history that the higher you climb the more arseholes there were who want to take your place. He went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. A nice cup of tea would settle him down. He was beginning to tire of the bullshit and the banter with the old crowd in the Queen’s Tavern. He’d heard that the head boys in the drugs trade down south all lived in Spain. The business in Ulster was almost running on autopilot. Maybe it was time to buy the mansion and put himself beyond the reach of some toerag who wanted to take him out. It was an idea that was worth serious consideration. What was the point of having a shedload of money if you couldn’t enjoy it? He dropped a teabag into a mug and poured in some hot water. He’d start working on putting himself out of harm’s way today.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Willie Rice was in the zone. It was like he had travelled back in time and discovered the strength and clarity of mind of his younger self. He sat in the rear of a black cab as it passed the Queen’s Tavern. He was surprised to see that there was no guard standing outside. It was his son’s policy that one of the crew was on duty at the Brown Bear whenever he was in residence. McGreary was becoming complacent. The bastard thought that the Rice family was finished. That might be the biggest error he had made in his life. Rice ordered the cab to turn around and drop him off in front of the pub. He tossed a £20 note onto the front seat and slid out of the rear of the cab. He walked up to the pub and put his hand on the door. Once he pushed it in there would be no turning back.
McGreary and his cronies were at their habitual table deeply engrossed in a game of twenty-five. None of them looked up when the door opened. A loud shout went up from their table as McGreary claimed a trick and the game. He was sitting with his back to the door and as he pulled the cards in from the centre of the table he saw the look on the face of the man across from him. Jamesy Sutton was the first at the table to react to the arrival of Willie Rice. Sutton had been McGreary’s bodyguard for more than ten years and was the only member of the crew who carried a weapon. He half stood and reached for his pocket but the bullet caught him in the face and flung him back against the wall.
‘The next man that moves will get the same treatment,’ Rice said. He was amazed at the way his body and mind had acted in perfect harmony in the killing of Jamesy Sutton. He almost hadn’t thought about pulling the Beretta from his pocket, raising it and firing in almost the same movement. It was like the old days all over again.
McGreary remained seated and turned around slowly. ‘Now, now, Willie, there was no need for that. Jamesy shouldn’t have stood up like that. He got everything he deserved.’ Over Rice’s shoulder, he could see the barman dialling on his mobile. It wouldn’t matter if he were calling Davie Best or the Peelers. It was going to take some time before anyone got there. And Gerry McGreary was smart enough to know that he didn’t have that much time. Although Rice looked calm, his eyes were red and bloodshot. He was a man on the edge and men on the edge who had made their minds up didn’t normally wait long before acting. He ran through a list of options, none of them saw him living too long. He stared into Rice’s face and knew that he was already dead. ‘Willie we can sort this out.’ The bullet ripped through his face and ricocheted around his skull ripping his brain to shreds in a matter of seconds. He slumped in his seat.
Willie Rice pulled out a chair at an adjoining table and sat down. He kept his gun pointed at the four men seated at the table. ‘I have six shots left. You can try to rush me but I’ll get at least two of you. Who feels like dying today?’
None of the men spoke.
Rice smiled. ‘Now, all we have to do is wait for the Peelers. No one else needs to die.’
Wilson was sitting in his office struggling with another questionnaire from HR when Harry Graham burst into the squad room. He rushed to the door of Wilson’s office. ‘Boss, quick, there’s been a shooting at the Queen’s Tavern.’
Wilson stood up. The Queen’s Tavern was the McGreary gang’s hangout. ‘How many casualties?’ He took his Glock from the drawer of his desk and slipped it into his jacket pocket. ‘Are there any uniforms on the scene?’
‘No news on the casualties,’ Graham said. ‘The uniforms are on the way.’
‘Tell them not to do anything until we arrive. Get two flak jackets.’ It looked like the gang war that he had been anticipating had just broken out.
Graham pulled out his mobile phone and made a quick call. ‘The jackets are in the car and the uniforms have been told to stay outside. As far as we can tell from the message that was phoned in, it’s not a hostage situation.’
Wilson quickly followed Graham and they both rushed down the stairs and out the front door of the station. A car was waiting in the courtyard, and as soon as they were inside it sped off in the direction of the Woodvale Road.
Two police Land Rovers were blocking the street from both ends when Wilson’s car arrived. A uniformed officer cradling a machine gun waved them through and they stopped fifty-feet from the Tavern. Wilson got out of the car and approached a group of uniformed officers standing outside the pub. Wilson saw that one of them was wearing the two diamond flashes on his shoulder indicating that he was an inspector. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked.
The inspector turned to face him. ‘We have instructions to wait for your arrival.’
‘No further shooting?’ The outside of the pub had been cordoned off.
‘Not since we arrived,’ the inspector said. ‘How do you want to play this?’
‘We need to know what’s going on inside.’ Wilson looked at Graham who nodded in return. ‘DC Graham and I will go and have a look. You keep your people back. If we need help, you’ll hear us.’ He started walking towards the pub closely followed by Graham who already had his Glock 17 in hand. He pushed open the front door of the pub and walked inside. It took a few moments for his eyes to acclimatise to the low level of lighting. An unnatural silence hung over the large room. The barman was still standing behind the bar and he motioned with his head towards the rear of the room. Wilson looked along the bar until his eyes came to rest on a table at the rear. The first thing he noticed was a man directly facing him was lying back in his seat staring at the ceiling. A second man who had his back to Wilson was slumped over on the table where playing cards had been scattered about. Two casualties minimum, Wilson thought. There were four men seated at the table with the two corpses. He recognised them as members of McGreary’s crew. He turned to look at Graham who was surveying the scene. He noticed the pistol in his hand. Wilson walked forward slowly. There was an alcove to the right of the rear and he could see a pair of legs extended from the side. He motioned Graham to move to his left while he moved forward. Gradually, the body of the man sitting in the alcove became clear. Wilson recognised it as belonging to Willie Rice. As he drew level with the alcove, he saw that Rice was cradling a pistol with the muzzle pointed at the four men seated across from him.
‘Jesus Christ, Willie,’ Wilson said still ten
feet away from the alcove. ‘What have you gone and done?’
‘He killed my son.’ The gun never wavered in Rice’s hand. ‘The stupid bastard forgot that I once had the biggest set of balls in the Shankill. He thought he could take my only son from me and I wouldn’t fight back. Well, I showed the bastard.’
‘It’s all over now, Willie.’ Wilson could see out of the corner of his eye that Graham had taken up a position at the far side of the room. All his team trained regularly at the shooting range and he knew that if Rice made a wrong move, Graham would kill him. The last thing he wanted was Willie Rice dead. He walked forward until he was almost level with the alcove. He was aware that he would be impeding Graham’s shot but it was a risk he had to take. He walked forward and put a finger on McGreary’s neck. There was no sign of a pulse. He turned back towards Rice. ‘He’s gone. You’ve accomplished what you came here to do.’ He moved forward aware that he was totally obstructing Graham’s view. He extended his hand towards Rice. ‘Now, be a good man and give me the gun.’ He could almost see the wheels turning in Rice’s mind. He was convinced that the seemingly helpless old man sitting before him was an ice-cold murderer and he was aware that at any moment the muzzle of the gun could be turned towards him and it would be the last sight that he would ever see. All his instincts told him to get out of the way and let Graham finish off what had been a mad dog. But Willie Rice held the key to the death of Alan Evans, Jennifer Bowe and even Francis McComber. He wasn’t about to let him die. He walked forward until he was only a few feet from Rice. ‘You look tired, Willie. You should let me take the gun and we’ll get you back to the station where you can have a nice cup of tea.’
Rice looked up. ‘I did Sammy proud, didn’t I Mr Wilson?’ He moved his right hand forward.
Wilson could feel Graham’s Glock trained on his back. He extended his hand forward and wrapped it around the muzzle of Rice’s pistol. ‘Good man, just let it go. You did Sammy proud.’ He felt Rice’s grip go slack on the handle of the gun and he pulled it away sharply.
Immediately, the four men at the table stood up and made for the door. Wilson had no interest in them. The uniforms outside would corral them. Rice had collapsed forward in the chair. Wilson motioned Graham forward. ‘You can put the gun away now, Harry. Put handcuffs on him and let’s get him to the station. He took a plastic bag from his pocket and dropped the Beretta 70 into it.
Graham heaved Rice to his feet and handcuffed his hands behind his back. The two police officers and their prisoner made their way through the pub and towards the light spilling through the front door. Outside, Wilson’s car had been pulled up to the door of the pub and Graham bundled Rice into the rear before climbing in after him.
‘Good job, sir.’ The uniformed inspector came to stand beside Wilson. ‘Sectarian?’
‘No, money,’ Wilson said. ‘And revenge, two of the oldest motives in the world. The crime scene guys will be along. Make sure nobody contaminates the scene.’ The inspector started to move away. ‘And lend me one of your guys to drive the car back to the station,’ Wilson shouted after him.
It was one of those times that he really wished he hadn’t given up smoking.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Wilson nodded at Harry Graham who then turned the recording equipment off. The table between them and Willie Rice was littered with plastic cups containing the dregs of cold tea. Wilson had insisted on a solicitor being present during Rice’s interview. The man had done his best to protect his client but Willie had wanted to talk and Wilson had wanted to listen. It was now almost six o’clock in the evening and Rice had finally run out of steam. As soon as they had reached the station, Rice had been cautioned and placed in the interview room. When the solicitor had arrived, the interview began and continued for four hours. Rice had immediately put his hand up for McGreary and Sutton. He would certainly go down for that. After all, the murder had been witnessed by the patrons of the Queen’s Tavern and Wilson had taken the murder weapon from Rice’s hand. The admission to the murder of McGreary had opened the floodgates and during the rest of a rambling interview Rice had admitted to killing Evans and Bowe along with five other unsolved sectarian murders. He put Jackie Carlisle firmly in the frame as the man who wanted Evans dead. He had no idea why. That wasn’t one of the questions that interested him. He was only required to pull the trigger. He had told his story of the last hours of Francis McComber and explained his part in disposing of her body. In one fell swoop, Wilson had cleared up five murder cases. He was elated but exhausted. Listening to Rice’s catalogue of crime made him angry. Rice had unleashed his own reign of terror on the people of Belfast and his son hadn’t fallen too far from the tree. It was a miracle that neither man had thus far been made to answer for their crimes. Or maybe it wasn’t so much of a miracle. There was more than one serial killer walking the streets of Belfast. Wilson was an old-style copper. Murderers belonged in jail not walking the street. He didn’t believe in “political” crimes and he certainly didn’t believe in a process that put convicted murderers back on the streets. The four men in the room stood up. The solicitor packed up his briefcase and a uniformed officer led Rice away to the cells. Rice would have a short court appearance the following day but there was still a lot of paper to prepare.
‘You get off home, Harry,’ Wilson said as they left the interview room. ‘I’ll handle things here.’
‘I’m OK to stay on for a few hours, boss.’
‘Thanks, but I can manage. Go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Wilson walked off in the direction of the squad room. It had been a hell of a day. The room was in darkness when he entered except for a light in his office that he didn’t remember leaving on. He could also see a figure sitting in the light. He walked the length of the room and pushed open the door to his office.
Jack Duane sat in his visitor’s chair. A bottle of twelve-year-old Jameson and two glasses were on his desk. Duane didn’t bother to look around. He unscrewed the top of the whiskey bottle and poured two large measures. He pushed one of the measures across the desk towards Wilson’s seat. ‘I’d say that you need a drink.’
‘How the hell did you get in here?’ Wilson moved to his side of the desk and sat down.
‘Your boss and my boss, that kind of thing.’ Duane lifted his glass and toasted Wilson. ‘You’re a good copper, Ian and you’ve got the luck of the devil.’
They touched glasses and drank. Whiskey never tasted so good to Wilson. He felt like he could drink a lake of it.
‘We’ve got the man who killed Alan Evans and Jennifer Bowe,’ Wilson said.
‘I know.’ Duane refilled their glasses. ‘I was watching in the room next door.’
Wilson smiled. ‘Who the fuck are you, Jack?’
Duane smiled. ‘A simple Irish bogtrotter, the good news is that the killer was one of your bad men and not one of ours.’
‘Simple Irish bogtrotter my arse. That’s the problem with this province. We’ve had every organ of the British security apparatus operating here and I have no doubt that there were plenty of guys like you from the south putting your oar in. Maybe somebody might have thought that if you had all fucked off and left us alone that we might have been able to manage our own problem.’
Duane raised his glass again. ‘I’m only the monkey. Somewhere behind me is the organ grinder. And I’m not talking about Nolan, or Nicholson in your case. We’re the foot soldiers and you know what foot soldiers are worth in a war. So, tonight we both probably dodged a bullet thanks to Mr Rice. All the organ grinders will be happy. The murderer will be in the dock and we can all sleep sound in our beds.’
Wilson sipped his second whiskey. He would not be driving home tonight. ‘But we still don’t know why. Why did Jackie Carlisle, a respected if dubious politician, want Alan Evans dead?’
‘Unfortunately, we can’t ask him. But I bet that there’s a very good reason.’
‘You haven’t been dealing with us very long, Jack,’ Wilson said. ‘Up here, there d
oesn’t have to be a very good reason.’
‘What’s your problem? You’ve cleared up a half a dozen crimes. You’re going to be a hero. One gang boss is dead and another is going down. It’s a hell of a result.’
‘You heard what Rice said at the end of the interview.’
‘Remind me.’