by Fee Derek
McDevitt shook his head, and took the plastic bag holding it at arm’s length. Both men laughed and McDevitt winced. ‘Not a laughing matter,’ he said when he finally composed himself.
‘No,’ Wilson said taking his arm and leading him towards the exit to the reception area. ‘Not a laughing matter at all.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Wilson drove to McDevitt’s house in Agincourt Avenue. He parked directly in front and helped the injured man into the house. He gave McDevitt two painkillers and managed to get him into bed. McDevitt was asleep before Wilson left the room. The adrenaline had drained from McDevitt’s body, and the wave of exhaustion finally overwhelmed him. In the morning, he would have the worst headache of his life as the full effect of the swollen jaw kicked in. He emptied the plastic bag of clothes into the bath and showered them with cold water. He managed to get most of the excrement down the plughole, and left the clothes steeping in cold water. He felt sorry for McDevitt. By some unwritten rule journalists seldom ended up being the victims of crime. A notable exception was dealing with Islamic State. So maybe McDevitt had been unlucky. Wilson went to the kitchen. His host had a wide selection of teas, and he helped himself to a cup of Camomile. He was tired and decided it wasn’t worth heading back to Queen’s Quay. The couch looked comfortable. He liked McDevitt’s house despite its appearance of being a man cave. It was exactly the kind of place that he could see himself living in. He sat down on the couch. He hadn’t been through anything like the same trauma as McDevitt but he was more tired than he could remember. There were too many issues flooding his mind. He would have to add looking after McDevitt to the list. Jock had put himself on the line by looking into Sinclair and Jackson, and he’d been given the treatment for his trouble. Wilson realised that he had already accepted that he was the cause of what happened to McDevitt. That might mean that it was Sinclair and Jackson themselves who had dealt with McDevitt. He might be wrong but he could see Jackson as the type who might relish dishing out punishment. He would have a better idea when he read McDevitt’s full account. He drank his tea slowly running over the possibilities in his mind. Every time he came back to Sinclair and Jackson aided and abetted by one of their old pals from Special Branch. Unless McDevitt was involved in something else, he was being punished for asking questions about them. That seemed a bit harsh to him. What if the beating and humiliation wasn’t just a message to McDevitt, but to him as well? He was beginning to feel angry. It wasn’t a positive emotion, and it wasn’t an emotion that would contribute to the solution as to who murdered Mallon and Lafferty, and why they had done it. He finished his tea and lay down on the couch. He wanted terribly to sleep but his mind was active. He would have to throw away his strategy for investigating the deaths of the two young men. He would have to look at an alternative approach. But what it was, he had no idea. He was running through possibilities when he finally drifted to sleep.
Wilson wasn’t exactly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when he entered the office in Dunmurry the following morning. As anticipated, McDevitt had woken up with the mother-of-all-headaches and was busy swallowing painkillers when Wilson left. Since the Cummerford trial was reaching its conclusion, McDevitt wasn’t in the position to take a day off. Wilson arrived at Dunmurry carrying the two thick files that Reid had procured for him. The amount of evidence he had already collected was impressive but it didn’t help him to answer the vital questions he had developed. The strategy he had been working on was out the window. He couldn’t ask either Kate or McDevitt for their help. That left him with Stephanie Reid as his only ally. And she had already fulfilled her purpose. Not for the first time, he found himself ready to call time on the investigation. He could write a damning report on the RUC investigation and leave behind a file with considerably more evidence for someone else to carry forward. He supposed that he could follow such a course of action, but he was damned if he was going to. He had made a promise to Michael Lafferty he intended to keep and it wasn’t in his DNA to give up until the final whistle was blown. There was a tap on the office door and Sinclair entered.
“You’re looking a bit the worse for wear this morning,’ he said sitting in Wilson’s visitor chair.
‘Hard night,’ Wilson said simply. He was looking directly into Sinclair’s face searching for a ‘tell’. He was certain that if Jackson and Sinclair were not directly responsible for McDevitt’s ordeal, they knew who was.
Sinclair’s face was an impassive mask. ‘Do tell.’
‘Someone lifted Jock McDevitt last night and threw a scare into him. He ended up in the Royal Victoria and called on me to pick him up.’
‘Poor old Jock.’ A smile played along Sinclair’s lips. ‘I didn’t know you were such good friends.’
Wilson thought he could see something more in the smile than straightforward amusement. ‘Jock doesn’t have many friends. We’re more acquaintances.’
‘Still, you’re the one he turned to. Must have been distressing for him. He should report it.’
‘He’s going to. They lifted him in a black cab from right outside the Chronicle’s office in Royal Avenue. That took a bit of balls. I think someone was making it look like either a new IRA or UDA operation. Unfortunately, Jock isn’t working on a story involving either organisation so that theory doesn’t hold water.’
‘Something in the past, perhaps.’ The smile flitted across his lips again.
‘Perhaps. There’s a chance someone caught the number of the cab. There are so many CCTV cameras in the city, it’ll have been picked up.’
‘Jock alright, is he?’
‘His jaw won’t be fully operational for a few days,’ Wilson said watching for a response from Sinclair. ‘But, at least, he won’t be taking his meals through a straw for a month. I’d say whoever lifted him knew what they were doing.’
‘Nasty blokes the IRA and UDA.’ The smile was still there but dimmed.
Wilson made a mental note to call Peter Davidson as soon as Sinclair was out of the office.
‘Any progress on the Mallon and Lafferty killings?’ Sinclair asked. He was looking directly at the files on Wilson’s desk.
‘Not quite,’ said Wilson picking up the two pocket files. ‘These are the autopsy files.’ He opened them and took out the contents. ‘Strange that neither of them made their way into the RUC file. It seems that our old friend, Sergeant Ramsey, attended both autopsies. There’s a note in the file to the effect that the bullets taken from the bodies were handed to the RUC officer attending. A lot of evidence appears to have disappeared in this case. And most of what disappeared did so through the good offices of Ramsey.’
‘Anything else from the autopsies?’
Wilson decided a white lie was in order. ‘A cordite test on the hands of the two dead boys was negative. They hadn’t been handling weapons. The firing had been in one direction only.’
‘Interesting,’ Sinclair shifted position in the chair. ‘But that doesn’t seem to get us any further.’
‘I think I’ll have another go at Sergeant Ramsey. There are far too many mentions of him in connection with these murders. I think he has a lot more he could tell us. In the meantime, I think I’ll get Jackson to do a report on the various murder gangs that were active at the time of the shooting.’
‘That will certainly make him happy. He can get on it as soon as you’ve finished the second interview with Ramsey.’
‘I think I’ll question Ramsey alone this time.’
Sinclair stood. He didn’t look very pleased. ‘It’s your call although, it’s not strictly in line with procedures. You should take Jackson along. We certainly wouldn’t want you injured or anything.’
‘I think I’m a different proposition to McDevitt.’
‘Yes, I’m quite sure you are. Give my best to your friend. Wish him a speedy recovery.’
Wilson watched Sinclair leave the office. He wondered whether he’d come to gloat over McDevitt. He thought that perhaps he had. At least he had stuck a pin in
Sinclair’s balloon with the information on the autopsy.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Wilson left the office immediately, and drove to the Tesco superstore on the Lisburn Road where he bought a new mobile phone and a new Sim card. He went to Smith’s Cafe, bought a coffee and sat at a table to the rear. The cafe was busy with a combination of customers enjoying a late breakfast or an early lunch. For Wilson the most important attribute of the cafe was the noise generated by the conversations of the patrons. He took out his old phone, checked Peter Davidson’s number and keyed it into his new phone.
‘Detective Constable Davidson,’ the phone was answered quickly and the voice had a level of surprise.
‘Peter, it’s Ian.’
‘Sorry, boss, I didn’t recognise the number.’
‘It’s new,’ and more secure, he thought. He knew he wouldn’t have to explain to Davidson. ‘I need a favour.’
‘Anything,’ Davidson said immediately.
Wilson explained what had happened to McDevitt the previous evening.
‘The poor bloke,’ Davidson said when he was finished. ‘Pretty heavyweight, gun to the back of the head and dropping the hammer. Not the best experience in the world. What can I do?’
‘The taxi was idling outside the Chronicle’s office when Jock exited. Since they couldn’t have known what time he would leave the building, they must have been in position for some time. He left around 10 pm. Check the CCTV. See if you can get the licence plate of the cab, or a look at the guys who grabbed him.’
‘Will do, boss. Is Jock going to make a report?’
‘I doubt it. There are elements of the ordeal that he would prefer to keep private.’ He heard Davidson laugh on the other end of the phone. ‘I’d prefer if you could do this without raising suspicion.’
‘I have a few friends who should be able to help. I’ll spin them a story. What’s going on, boss?’
‘Damned if I know Peter.’
‘I don’t like the sound of it, boss. I don’t think either the IRA or the UDA would pick Jock up. His connections with the two organisations are pretty solid. Could be a splinter group, but I doubt it. One thing I do know, he certainly shook someone’s tree.’
‘What’s happening at the station?’
‘There’s agony over Spence’s replacement. In the meantime, we’re being run like a corner shop. We all used to wonder what Spence did upstairs. I think now we know. And there’s a rumour that ‘Fat Boy’ Harrison is in the running for head of the serious crime unit.’
‘You just made my day that little bit darker,’ Wilson said. The thought of someone as incompetent as Harrison sitting in his office turned his stomach. ‘If the business with the CCTV gets a bit hairy, bail.’
‘Don’t worry, boss. I get the picture. I’ll be careful. I‘ll have something for you soon.’
Jackson knocked on Wilson’s door five minutes after he returned from Smith’s. ‘Good morning, sir.’ He put an emphasis on the word ‘morning’ since it was approaching midday.
‘Good morning to you, sergeant.’
‘You’ve been out and about, sir.’ Jackson was standing at attention as usual.
‘Nipped down to Smith’s for a decent coffee. I’m a bit fed up with the crap they serve in the cafeteria. Didn’t know that we were tied at the hip.’
‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to pry.’
Oh yes you did, Wilson thought. ‘Still nothing on the car?’ He saw that Jackson was staring at the autopsy files.
Jackson shook his head.
Wilson lifted the files. ‘These are the autopsy files on Mallon and Lafferty. I managed to get them from the Royal Victoria. I want you to familiarise yourself with them.’ He handed the files across to Jackson.
Jackson took the files with a certain level of reluctance. ‘Is there anything else I can do, sir?’
‘That should keep you going for a while,’ said Wilson who couldn’t suppress a smile.
‘Chief Superintendent Sinclair told me that you intend to re-interview Sergeant Ramsey. He suggested that I should accompany you.’
‘Thank you, sergeant, but that won’t be necessary. I’m a big boy and I think your time would be better spent in familiarising yourself with the results of the autopsies.’
’Moy and Moygashel are not the most welcoming places for the police.’
‘I think I’m old enough to take care of myself.’ ‘Sir,’ said Jackson as he left with the files under his arm. His countenance was not that of a happy man.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Wilson intended following the M1 from Dunmurry to Moygashel before turning off onto the A29 for Moy. Although he travelled the same road some days earlier, he had a completely different impression of it. Perhaps it was the weather, which was bright and sunny, or perhaps it was simply that he felt more at ease in the car on his own. As he passed by Lisburn, he had a sudden impulse to visit the house he had been born in. It was more than twenty years since he had set foot in the town that his parents called home. He followed the A1 along the Laganbank Road before turning off at Hillsborough Road. He found the family home easily enough. It looked different, probably because the current occupants had modernised the building. He thought about stopping, and knocking on the door. He could imagine himself rambling through the rooms he had known so well as a child. But it would have a bittersweet effect on him, and he decided against it. Instead he turned onto Church Lane, and stopped at the junction with Barrack Street. Lisburn Police Station stood directly before him. Despite the end to the ‘Troubles’, it was an imposing building where many of the security features had been retained. The redbrick front wall was surmounted by several feet of barbed wire fencing while floodlights were placed at intervals along the Barrack Street side of the wall. CCTV cameras covered all the approaches to the station. This was his father’s place of work for more than twenty years. He only stopped briefly before continuing along Barrack Street to Smithfield Street. He turned back onto Hillsborough Road, and glanced to the right as he passed the family home again. He drove back to the A1 and on to the M1 in the direction of Moygashel. He had no idea what had caused him to make the diversion into Lisburn. Perhaps he was feeling nostalgic. He had undergone two major life changes. He knew enough about life to realise that change is a big part of man’s existence. Yet, he never thought that he would leave Tennent Street, and he had believed that his relationship with Kate would stand the test of time. The words “till death do us part” echoed in his mind but he wasn’t sure that they related to Kate alone. He drove along the southern shore of Lough Neagh until he reached the village of Moygashel. He turned right onto the A29, and ten minutes later drove onto the rough path that led to Ramsey’s farm. Whatever happened on that evening in 1974 at Beechmount Parade, Ramsey had been an integral part of it, both as member of the clean-up team and as a member of the cover-up team. Wilson was now certain that there had been a cover-up, and that the RUC was central to it. He was aware that during the 1970’s there was a fractious relationship between the British Army and the RUC. Both organisations contained individuals who committed atrocities every bit as horrible as those committed by the IRA and the UDA. There was also the issue of overlapping membership of the RUC and the UDA, and the UDA and the UDR. That meant that the killings of Mallon and Lafferty were most likely motivated by sectarianism or politics. Both of those motivations were a quagmire in Northern Ireland. While driving the last leg of the journey to Moy, he wondered how he could break Ramsey. One thing was sure, the former RUC sergeant and pig farmer wouldn’t break easily. He entered the farmyard, and parked the car on what looked like the most solid area. He had no desire to splash through pig slurry to get to the door of Ramsey’s house. He moved from clear area to clear area as he approached the house. The front door was locked, and his knocking produced no result. He was about to go around the side of the house when a shot rang out. The pigs started squealing and rushing about in their pen. Wilson immediately crouched. He hadn’t seen a bullet pass
anywhere in his vicinity, but he wasn’t about to take a chance. He pulled out his warrant card and held it aloft. ‘Police,’ he shouted at the top of his voice. ‘No more shooting, Come out wherever you are.’ He stood up and looked around. There was no sign of the shooter. He wasn’t carrying his gun, so he was at the mercy of whoever shot. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson of the PSNI, show yourself.’ He turned to a noise from the barn. A small figure slowly appeared at the edge. The man coming into view was certainly in his seventies, and possibly even in his eighties. He was dressed in a tattered donkey jacket over a stained pullover, filthy trousers and green wellington boots. He was carrying a shotgun.
‘Break the gun down,’ Wilson said.
The man complied holding the broken down gun in the crook of his arm. ‘Who did ye say ye were?’
Wilson extended the warrant card. ‘Superintendent Ian Wilson, I suppose you have a licence for that shotgun?’
‘Aye,’ the man was now fully in view. His face was weather-beaten, the skin having the appearance of cracked leather. He wore a dirty flat cap on his head with white hairs poking out at every angle.
‘And who are you?’ Wilson asked.
‘Jamie Nicholson.’
Nicholson was definitely not the talkative type. “Why did you shoot?’
‘I didn’t fire at ye, I fired in the air.’
‘But why?’
‘Thought ye were a robber, didn’t I’
‘Where’s Ramsey?’
‘Gone.’
Wilson wanted to wring the older man’s neck. Every ounce of information had to be dragged out of him. ‘Gone where?’
Nicholson shrugged his shoulders.
‘He didn’t tell you?’ Wilson said.
‘No, told me to look after the pigs. Feed’em and the like.’