by Fee Derek
PROLOGUE
Belfast, September 1974
The three men lounged against a dated Vauxhall saloon car located at the edge of the courtyard that separated the two main administration blocks of Palace Barracks in Holywood, County Down. They smoked as they watched the entrance to their compound at the rear of the barracks. Already dusk had settled in and a series of dark clouds were moving from the direction of Lough Neagh. All three were regular soldiers in the British Army but were dressed in civilian clothes and had an easy air about them. They watched their colleagues moving around the barracks with a level of disdain as though they considered themselves to be above the normal squaddie.
The youngest member of the group flicked his cigarette high into the air. ‘When are we off?’ he asked without addressing either of his colleagues specifically.
‘Don’t you ever fucking listen at the briefings? The day they let a dipstick like you into the army was the day I should have demobbed,’ the oldest member of the group said.
The young soldier bristled. ‘That’s harsh, Taff.’ His given name was Lee Dixon but his sergeant had stuck the nickname ‘Dipstick’ on him as soon as he had arrived in Northern Ireland. Dixon knew that despite his best efforts that nickname would stay with him while he remained a serving soldier. He had come to hate Taff Williams and not only for giving him a derogatory nickname. Williams had a hard-on for the IRA and was always looking for trouble. He was the kind of bloke who could get his comrades killed while he walked away.
Taff spat on the ground. ‘We wait for the new boy to show up and then we get our arses in gear.’
‘What’s the new bloke like?’ Dixon asked.
‘Fucked if I know,’ Taff replied. ‘Are we all tooled up?’
Dixon moved to the rear of the Vauxhall and popped the trunk. He put his hand inside, withdrew a Sterling machine gun and held it aloft. ‘Best fucking weapon ever produced. I’d say we’re all tooled up. All we need is some of the bastards to come and get it. Anyway why do we need someone from the RUC to hold our hands?’
The third member of the group dropped his cigarette on the ground and stubbed it out with his foot. ‘Shithead,’ he muttered under his breath.
‘Ours not to reason why ours but to do or die,’ Taff said. ‘Enough of the fucking lip.’
Dixon put the Sterling back in the trunk but left it open. He turned with his colleagues as a heavily reinforced RUC Land Rover entered through the steel gates that cut off the compound from the rest of the barracks. The driver did a complete tour of the rectangular space before heading in their direction.
‘Fucking Paddies,’ Taff muttered. ‘Couldn’t organise a piss up in a brewery.’
The Land Rover pulled up abruptly in front of the Vauxhall and a man exited from the passenger side. Like the three soldiers, he was dressed in civilian clothes. He was tall and erect as he walked towards the group. He held out his hand as he approached and opened his mouth to speak.
‘No names,’ Taff said before the RUC man could speak. ‘And no fucking handshakes. And get that rod out of your arse. We’re supposed to look like civilians.’ He looked over the RUC man’s shoulder at the idling Land Rover. ‘And tell your mate to piss off. He’s not needed here.’
The RUC man turned and spoke to the driver of the Land Rover who muttered something before putting the vehicle into gear and driving towards the exit.
‘You been briefed?’ Taff asked. He looked at the RUC man. The guy was at least six foot two or three and weighed more than two hundred pounds. He was a handsome bugger and would have been more so if it wasn’t for the broken nose, caused the older soldier guessed either through boxing or rugby. Anyway, he looked like he could handle himself and that was the kind of guy you needed when you were going up against the IRA.
‘Yes,’ the RUC man’s accent was pure Northern Irish.
‘All ready to join our little band?’ Taff said.
The RUC man nodded.
Taff turned and spoke to Dixon. ‘Hand out the tools!’
Dixon removed three Sterling machine guns from the trunk of the car and tossed one to Taff and the second to the RUC man while retaining the third for himself.
Taff held out the machine gun. “Know how to use one of these?’ he asked the RUC man.
The RUC man nodded.
Taff opened the rear door of the Vauxhall. He pointed at the RUC man. ‘You’d better ride shotgun. You’re too fucking big for the back seat.’
The four men took their places in the car with the quiet soldier at the wheel.
‘Let’s go visit our Republican friends,’ Taff said, ‘that’s if they have the balls to come out and face us.’
The driver set the car in motion.
The football game was well underway along Beechmount Parade. The young men involved vied for who would be George Best and Pat Jennings and the other heroes of the day. The light was fading fast and the lamp-posts were playing the role of floodlights as the game headed towards a conclusion.
The Vauxhall Victor carrying the four men was circulating in the area of the Falls Road. They had already passed through the Divis Flats area but for once the neighbourhood was quiet. Divis was one of the hotbeds of Republican activism and could usually be counted on to provide a bit of action. The radio in the car was tuned to the army frequency and indicated that very little was on. The atmosphere in the car was testosterone loaded. The occupants were aware that they were travelling in the Republican heartland and that as British soldiers they were fair game. Undercover soldiers caught by the Republicans didn’t fare too well.
‘Not much action tonight, boss.’ Dixon broke the silence in the car. There was a football game on the box and he would prefer to be back in barracks watching the game with a pint in his hand.
‘We need to draw Paddy out,’ Taff said.
The car passed slowly by Beechmount Parade and the occupants saw the football game in progress in the middle of the street.
Taff tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘Turn around and go back slowly.’ He moved his hand to the shoulder of the RUC man. ‘It’s on our side, mate. Get your Sterling ready. We’ll give them a blast as we pass by. That should bring the IRA bastards running. Then we can have a real ruck.’
The RUC man half turned in his seat. ‘You mean fire into the football game.’
‘You catch on quick,’ Taff said laughing. ‘We can ride around here all night like a crowd of fucking tourists or we can instigate a bit of action. We’re here to kick IRA arse.’ He spoke to the driver. ‘Nice and slowly now so that our new best friend can get some shots off.’
The driver made a U-turn at the top of the Falls and eased back slowly towards Beechmount Parade. He was almost stationary as they passed the corner of the street.
Taff and the RUC man had lowered their windows and had their Sterling machine guns at the ready.
‘Now,’ Taff shouted and began firing
The RUC man did the same and a stream of bullets flew in the direction of the football players.
Pandemonium broke out on the street as soon as the firing began. The young men in the street dived in every direction as the bullets flew around them. Doors on the street began to open but nobody dared go into the street while the fusillade continued. The street was a scene of chaos with screams of pain mingling with the crying of fear. As soon as the firing stopped residents flooded the street. By then the Vauxhall was across the gap in the street. The football players gradually got to their feet; some had dazed looks on their faces and staggered around in disbelief at what had just happened. However, not all rose. Four of the players remained prone. Two were crying in pain but there was no movement from the other two.
CHAPTER ONE
Belfast, present day
Every policeman has some part of the job that they detest and for Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson giving evidence was the part he hated most. He was an honest to God copper who didn’t like some smart-arsed barrister trying to prove that he was some class of an idiot because he didn’t give credence to some far fetched theory the defence had concocted. But that was what the barristers were paid for, and it didn’t help that the chief counsel for the defence was his former partner, Kate McCann, QC. He didn’t like thinking of Kate as his former partner. They had agreed to stop living with each other a few weeks previously, and although Kate had labelled it as a ”break”, it was beginning to take on a permanence that Wilson wasn’t entirely happy with. The reason he was in court was the case against Maggie Cummerford for killing three elderly Belfast ladies. Maggie had smashed in the heads of Lizzie Rice, Nancy Morison and Joan Boyle. He’d been SIO (Senior Investigating Officer) on the case while his former partner was currently the lead barrister on the defence team. The DPP (Director of Public Prosecutions) had decided to bundle all three cases since the motivation for all three was the same. Wilson was seated in the central hall of the Royal Courts of Justice in Chichester Street in Central Belfast. He knew that he was unlikely to be called on the first day of the trial but there was always a chance that the usual long-winded opening remarks might be kept to a minimum, and he was one of the first on the list of witnesses. Two other members of the Belfast murder squad, DC Harry Graham and DC Peter Davidson, had also received subpoenas but had been told that they probably would not be called. Kate had flown by several minutes earlier in a flurry of black gown clasping to her chest the obligatory bundle of papers tied with a silk ribbon. Her eyes had darted in his direction but no signal of recognition was present. Another example of the “break” looking more permanent. He was sitting alone on one of the wooden benches admiring the floor to ceiling Travertine marble that panelled the walls. It was a room that oozed the gravitas that a building dedicated to the dispensation of justice should have. He felt rather than saw the body sitting down beside him.
‘You don’t have the look of a happy man,’ said Jock McDevitt, chief crime correspondent at the Belfast Chronicle, as he held out a cardboard cup bearing the logo of a well-known American coffee chain. ‘You like yours black, if I remember. You’re used to this court thing, I suppose.’
Wilson took the cup reluctantly and nodded his thanks. McDevitt was continually trying to cosy up in the hope of getting some titbit that he could massage into a scoop. ‘Garden of Gethsemane,’ Wilson said removing the cap from the carton and blowing vigorously on the dark liquid inside. More than once he’d had his tongue burned by the steaming liquid produced by the chain coffee companies.
‘I like the Biblical allusions.’ McDevitt took a gulp of his coffee. ‘Expecting to be in the box today?’
Wilson looked at McDevitt with new admiration. The man must have an insulated mouth to handle the scalding brew. ‘Not really. It depends on the opening statements. Both the prosecution and defence barristers are well known for their ability to spin out the proceedings.’
‘Pounds in the pocket,’ McDevitt said. ‘Those in the legal profession have to make a living.’
‘Just like crime reporters.’
‘Not much to defend.’ McDevitt shifted his slight frame and the wooden bench moved. ‘Three women with their heads bashed in, plenty of forensics no doubt. Slam dunk, as they say. I never say a bad word about a former colleague. But Maggie is as guilty as sin.’
‘I have reason not to underestimate the defence,’ Wilson smiled.
‘And how is the gorgeous Ms McCann?’
Wilson raised his eyes to heaven and then took a sip of his coffee. It tasted like someone had passed a coffee bean somewhere in the vicinity of boiling water and it was still hot enough to mildly scald him. He had no intention of spreading the word about Kate and his “break”.
‘The golden couple,’ McDevitt said continuing to ignore Wilson’s signal. ‘Detective Superintendent and Queen’s Counsel. A combination made in heaven. Nuptials expected. Any sign of Sammy Rice?’
‘No.’ Sammy Rice was a Belfast godfather who was wanted in connection with a series of murders that remained unsolved. Wilson had evidence that Rice was the instigator of the murders and certainly participated in at least one of them but he could prove nothing until he had his man in custody.
‘Strange.’ McDevitt took another gulp of coffee. ‘A man like that disappearing off the face of the earth. That doesn’t happen every day of the week.’ McDevitt crushed his coffee cup. ‘I’ve made some enquiries in Spain and there’s been no sightings on the Costa del Crime.’
Wilson had also made enquiries in Spain, and Great Britain and France and every other place that Rice might pitch up. But so far, nothing. Like McDevitt, he was beginning to think it very strange that Rice had disappeared off the planet. ‘He'll turn up sooner or later,’ Wilson said taking a risk on another sip of the coffee-infused hot water.
Now it was McDevitt’s turn to raise his eyes to heaven. ‘In the meantime,’ he said, ‘our mutual friend, Gerry McGreary isn’t letting the grass grow under his feet.’
‘What are we talking about?’ Wilson put the cap back on the cardboard cup and looked around in vain for a suitable place to deposit it.
‘Word on the street has it that McGreary has already taken over swathes of former Rice territory and the attendant cash flows associated with former Rice enterprises. That could make McGreary a very important man in this city. And Sammy still stays missing. Not in the character of the man, I would have said.’
‘What about the members of Rice’s gang?’ Wilson asked still cradling the cardboard cup in his hand.
‘Even before his so-called disappearance, Sammy was having a run of bad luck. I think it was Oscar Wilde who said to have one lieutenant murdered is bad luck, to have two murdered is incompetence.’
‘I don’t think that’s exactly what he said but I get the picture. Why a “so-called disappearance?” Don’t you believe that Sammy has gone to ground?’
McDevitt finished his coffee and crushed the cardboard cup. ‘You know journalism is a rumour factory. I hear that important people in the Province were not very happy with Sammy. He’d started to go rogue and there was a possibility that he might pull some people into the light that would prefer to be hidden in the darkness.’
Wilson sighed. ‘Not the “Circle” rubbish again. I thought that you’d seen the light there yourself.’
‘Willie Rice gone, Jackie Carlisle gone, three men murdered and no loose ends. Coincidences like that give me an itchin’ in my balls. And my balls are very seldom wrong.’
‘That’s a mental picture I could do without.’ Wilson made a fake wince.
McDevitt smiled. ‘You and me will end up friends, you know.’
‘Shouldn’t you be getting inside?’ Wilson nodded in the direction of the corridor leading to the courtroom where the Cummerford trial was about to get underway.
‘You’re right, of course.’ McDevitt pushed himself out of the wooden bench. ‘I’m only an old rumourmonger of a journalist. I must go now to represent the Fourth Estate.’ He handed Wilson his crushed cardboard cup. ‘We’ll have a drink in the Crown soon.’ He headed off towards the corridor.
Wilson watched McDevitt as he walked away. What was all that about? They’d had an APB out for over a month for Rice and the mechanics involved in the murders of David Grant and Brian Malone. It was frustrating knowing who committed the murders without being able to lay his hands on them. He looked down. He had a cardboard coffee cup in each hand. He looked along the corridor but McDevitt was no longer in sight. That bloody man must be related to Derren Brown, he thought. He had no idea why he had accepted the crushed coffee cup. He stood up and started for the front door. Even a detective as dumb as him, should be able to find a litter bin.
CHAPTER TWO
Colville House
and the land surrounding it had been in the Latimer family for more than 300 years, ever since Henry Latimer switched sides on the eve of the Battle of the Boyne in 1690. A grateful King William bestowed no title on the Latimers but made up for the lack of ennoblement with 5,000 acres of the best land in Ulster. The family prospered locally and internationally as one of the principal investors in the slave trade. The money flowing into the family coffers permitted the extension of their Irish property portfolio and the purchase of a prestigious London address within shouting distance of the home of the British Prime Minister. The demise of the slave trade was a serious blow to the family fortunes and they were obliged to concentrate on their Irish holdings. Sir Philip Latimer, current scion of the family, sat at the head of a table in the Colville House dining hall that would comfortably seat twenty. Seventeen of the seats were empty, the two occupied seats being on either side of Sir Philip. ‘Everything is in order, I suppose,’ he said looking directly at his single female dining companion.
‘Absolutely,’ said Helen McCann as she played with the piece of salmon en croute on her plate. ‘The Carson Investments vehicle has been totally wound up and the available funds buried so deep that not even that pest McDevitt would be able to wheedle his way into our business again.’
‘Capital!’ Sir Philip filled himself a glass of claret. He had visions of minions up all night shredding Carson Investments documentation. But that was Helen McCann’s business. The woman never ceased to amaze him. She had the keenest financial brain he had ever encountered, and since he held more than fifty board memberships, he had run across a lot of very smart people. But it wasn’t just her financial acumen that he admired. The woman had balls of steel, if one could make such a remark about a woman. She also had a resolve to keep Ulster within Great Britain that was the equal of her hero, Sir Edward Carson. ‘So, we go to ground and retrench.’ He lifted his glass and toasted his colleagues.