by Fee Derek
‘Did he say when he’d be back?’
‘No.’
Wilson thought himself an expert at interrogation but this was going nowhere fast. It was apparent that Ramsey had departed in haste. Nicholson had no idea why or where or even how long. ‘Bring that shotgun licence in to your local PSNI station,’ he said in an effort to save face. ‘And no more shooting at strangers.’
‘If I’d shot at ye, ye wouldn’t be standin’ here.’ Nicholson turned and disappeared behind the barn.
‘Bloody hillbilly,’ Wilson mumbled as he made his way back to his car. Sinclair or Jackson, or both, had ensured that Ramsey took a holiday. He could kick himself for mentioning his desire to re-interview Ramsey. Although, he doubted he would have been able to do so without alerting them. He had made a trip halfway across Ulster for nothing. Not exactly nothing. He’d established that Ramsey was a piece of the puzzle. He just wasn’t going to get a crack at that piece.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The barman shook his head as soon as Wilson entered the Crown, indicating that his habitual snug was in use.
He went to the rear of the bar and sat down. Five minutes later the barman deposited a pint of Guinness directly in front of him.
‘You’re a bit late,’ the barman said. ‘We can’t hold on to snugs indefinitely.’
‘I’ve been on a day outing to Moy,’ Wilson said picking up the Guinness.
‘And you’re still here to tell the tale.’ The barman smiled and returned to the bar. Wilson was feeling the effects of the late night, the lack of sleep and, if he was willing to admit it, the frustration of not realising earlier the important part that Ramsey played in the cover-up. The first mouthful of Guinness revived, in a small way, his spirits. He satisfied himself that he made more progress in the short time he had been investigating the murders than the RUC/PSNI made in the previous forty years. However, he was beginning to believe that there wasn’t much more to be learned. He was still mulling over where to go next with the investigation when Peter Davidson strode through the bar, and made for his table. Wilson signalled to the barman to replenish his pint and bring another for Davidson.
‘I didn’t expect to see you so soon,’ Wilson said.
Davidson sat down. ‘I sussed that something was amiss with the phones, so I thought I’d talk to you in person. I took a chance that since you’re single again that you might be here.’
‘We’re both lucky because I won’t be here for long. I’m out on my feet. I suppose I’m not as young as I used to be. What did you find out?’
The barman deposited two pints of Guinness on the table. Wilson hurriedly finished his and handed the glass to him.
Davidson touched his glass to Wilson’s, drank and then leaned forward. ‘What’s going on, boss?’
‘I told you, Peter. I don’t know and if I did I would certainly tell you. Now what did you learn?’
‘The time was spot on, so there was no need to run through reams of footage. The cab was there for most of the evening. There were two guys loitering in an alcove close to the Chronicle’s office. They probably knew the location of the camera because they stayed well away from it. We’ve got some great photos of hoodies. There’s no clear picture of their faces. They’re both big lads. Not your size, but not that far off. Certainly over six feet.’
‘And the cab?’
‘Standard black cab, the front licence plate was muddied over. I got one of the geeks to look at it and he brought up some of the numbers. There’s no such plate.’ He fished around in his pocket and took out a computer flash drive. ‘The abduction is on here along with the guys in the shadows and a shot of the cab’s plate.’
‘Thanks, Peter,’ Wilson said. ‘It’s appreciated.’
‘It’s the spooks, boss. Isn’t it?’
‘I wish I knew.’
‘This is the kind of thing they do. Guys with the patience to hang around all night, black cab with dodgy number plate, gun to the back of the head. It all fits.’
‘You’re right, Peter, it does fit. But I don’t believe it’s the spooks.’
‘Why?’
‘I think it’s down to me.’
‘Why you?’
‘I asked Jock to look into my new colleagues and he obliged. He has some contacts that we don’t have. Both my chief superintendent and my sergeant are former special branch. They have no background in investigation and yet they’re working on a task force investigating a double homicide.’
‘Christ, boss. Now I wish it were the spooks. Special Branch make the spooks look like Sunday-school teachers. If it’s about you, why didn’t they put the frighteners on you?’
‘That’s something I’d like to know.’ Wilson finished his drink. Davidson started to wave at the barman but Wilson stopped him. ‘Thanks, Peter, but I’m done for the night. I’m out on a limb here. I don’t trust the guys I’m working with and I’m slowly unravelling something that I think is going to stink to high heaven.’ He stood to leave.
Davidson stood. ‘Take care, boss. We need you back with us.’
A tired smile passed Wilson’s lips. That wasn’t about to happen soon.
As soon as Wilson left the Crown, his old mobile started to ring. He saw McDevitt’s number on the screen and pressed the green button.
‘Ian,’ McDevitt was still speaking as though he had marbles in his mouth but the marbles were a little smaller.
‘Jock, how are you?’‘Better. Call in sick tomorrow. We’re going to Dublin. I’ll be around to pick you up at 8 am.’ The line went dead. Wilson called back. The phone rang out but wasn’t answered.
CHAPTER FORTY
Wilson woke at 6 am from a fitful sleep. He shook himself clear of a bad dream whose contents he couldn’t fully remember, but it was a place that he didn’t want to be in. There was still a hangover of tiredness from the evening at the Royal Victoria with McDevitt. He needed something to banish the cobwebs from his brain. He put on his running gear. Light was just beginning to break over Belfast when he left the apartment building. The sun was invisible behind grey clouds, which stretched from one end of the horizon to the other. There was a thin fog coming off the water, and he could feel the humidity in the air every time he took a deep breath. His feet pounded the concrete path that led around the eastern edge of the port of Belfast. He was conscious of a slight pain in his bad leg but he attributed it to the dampness in the air. He was thinking about the telephone call from McDevitt and the fact that his follow-up call hadn’t been answered. He knew it was in a journalist’s DNA to be stubborn and dogged, but he hoped that McDevitt was smart enough to take the large hint he’d been given during his abduction. He was, more or less, sure that McDevitt had been lifted by the Special Branch. There was a rumour that the PSNI were about to launch an investigation into the activities of some members of the branch. The years of lawlessness in the Province had created an environment where renegades could flourish. Some of the practices from that era had become standards. While he was sent to study the most modern techniques of criminal investigation at the FBI School at Quantico, members of the Special Branch had been attending institutions with an altogether different curriculum. The fact that the criminal investigative function, the preservation of law and order function and the intelligence function all coexisted under the envelope of the PSNI sometimes led to conflicting objectives for the different branches. He ran steadily for half an hour before turning for home. He had showered and breakfasted after his run, and managed to catch the early-morning BBC news. The doorbell rang at exactly 8 am and when he looked out the window he saw an ancient black Mercedes 190 parked directly in front of the building.
McDevitt was in the driver’s seat when Wilson descended. ‘Dublin, here we come,’ he said as Wilson settled himself into the passenger seat. His diction was clearer, but the ugly bruise on his jaw was testament to the pain he was obviously feeling. ‘Can’t talk much. Still sore.’
‘I don’t know why I’m doing this,’ Wilson said. ‘And even more so I
don’t know why you’re doing it.’ He looked around McDevitt’s car. It looked like its owner lived in it. The rear seat was covered with the remnants of fast food. Pizza boxes fought for space with empty hamburger containers, while empty sandwich packets appeared to have pride of place. The rear floor was littered with empty drinks cans of every provenance. ‘So why are we going to Dublin?’
‘You’ll find out when we get there.’ McDevitt turned the ignition key and the engine sprang immediately to life. ‘Best car Mercedes ever made. I never had a day’s trouble with this one.’
‘I thought you were on the Cummerford trial full time. Won’t there be a missing chapter in your book?’
‘Court’s not in session today.’ McDevitt was already on the M3 heading towards Station Street. ‘The Judge’s cousin is being buried, and we all know that funerals take precedence over everything in Ireland. It’s part of our Celtic genes. Did you call in sick?’ He winced when he finished speaking.
Wilson ignored the question. He wasn’t the type who took sick days unless he was at death’s door. They had turned onto the M1 and then the A12 and they were soon passing through Dunmurry. It was the route that Wilson took every morning. He didn’t like surprises, and he was wondering what lake of shit McDevitt was about to drop him into. However, things were going so badly that whatever might be at the end of the journey couldn’t make things worse. Or could it? He started to relate the information that Davidson gave him the previous evening. McDevitt listened, but didn’t comment. He drove past Dunmurry and on to Lisburn where he took the A1 exit, and began the journey to the south. Just before the border the road became the N1, and when they entered the Irish Republic it became the M1 leading all the way to Dublin.
‘OK,’ Wilson said as they exited the Dublin Port Tunnel and emerged onto the East Wall. ‘We’re here. Now you can tell me why.’
‘We’re going to meet a man who might be able to explain the photograph to us.’ It was evident from the level of wincing that McDevitt wouldn’t be doing much of the talking. ‘I sent a copy of the photograph to an old journalist friend, and he set up the meeting for us. I don’t think that you’re going to be disappointed. Now let’s keep the talking to the minimum. My jaw hurts like hell.’ He drove across the Liffey and made his way to the Blackrock Road. At the junction beyond Blackrock village, he turned left for Dun Laoghaire, the principal port connecting the Irish Republic with England. He parked the Mercedes just above the port. ‘We’re here.’ He turned off the engine, and got out of the car.
Wilson followed. Beneath him he could see the ferry terminal to his left, and the pier to his right.
McDevitt looked at his watch. It was almost 10 am. ‘We’re just in time. Let’s take a walk along the pier.’
They walked to the pier’s entrance and started along the lower level. It was a weekday so there were few walkers. Several young women pushed prams, and there were intermittent joggers. But most of the people on the pier looked to be retired couples. They had almost reached the lighthouse at the end of the pier when they saw two men sitting on a wooden bench. McDevitt smiled and squeezed Wilson’s arm. ‘You’re about to meet a personality.’ McDevitt walked forwards and shook hands with the older man.
‘Jesus, Jock!’ The man’s accent was pure Dublin. ‘What the fuck happened to your jaw?’
‘Long story, Michael.’ McDevitt pulled Wilson forward. ‘This is Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson of the PSNI. Ian, this is Michael Power former crime hack on the Irish Press.’
Power stood and the two men shook hands. ‘Good to meet you, Ian.’ He stood back to reveal the second man sitting on the bench. I’d like to introduce both of you to John Hodson, former sergeant in the RUC, and renowned whistle-blower.’
Wilson looked at the man. Of course, he had heard of Hodson, very few police officers hadn’t. He had exposed the rotten underbelly of the RUC in Mid-Ulster during the ”Troubles”. Hodson was in his sixties or early seventies but looked younger. His face was gaunt and pale. His shoulders were narrow, and his frame was on the light side. He stood, and Wilson saw that despite his age he held himself erect. He had a full head of grey hair cut short. Wilson extended his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
Hodson smiled, and took Wilson’s hand. ‘You’re the rugby guy. You head up the murder squad.’
‘I used to,’ Wilson said. ‘Now I’m on a task force looking into a cold case.’
‘It’s about time they set up a cold case unit, after all, that’s what historical crimes are,’ Hodson said. ‘Most of those cases are so cold they must be frozen by now. So, why are we talking?’
Wilson explained he was looking into the case of Mallon and Lafferty, and the advances he’d made. When he finished, he noticed a man loitering about ten metres away.
‘My minder,’ Hodson said. ‘The Garda Siochana are afraid one of my old colleagues might try to knock me off. I suppose I ran my mouth off a little too much for some people’s liking.’ His accent was soft Tyrone, and he spoke with an exaggerated deliberateness that made him sound like an automaton. Each word came out separately and distinctly. He retook his seat and made room for Wilson to sit beside him. ‘What can I do for you?’
McDevitt took a copy of the photograph from his pocket and passed it to Hodson. ‘The letters MRF ‘ are on the rear.
‘Military Reaction Force,’ Hodson said slowly examining the photo. ‘I’ve seen photos like this before.’ His thin lips parted in a smile. ‘Would you look at them? They look like a bunch of bootleggers from the 1930s. You wouldn’t think that they were British soldiers. The MRF was a unit of the British Army that the Ministry of Defence would rather forget about. They were active in the early Seventies mainly in Belfast.’ He passed the photo back to McDevitt. ‘They used to drive around in clapped-out motors trying to look like locals, except they were armed to the teeth. Remember the famous playing cards with the photos of the main targets that the Americans distributed during the Iraq War?’
Wilson nodded.
‘These boys had the equivalent, except the portraits were of IRA men. They were supposed to look for their targets, and eliminate them. The problem was that when they couldn’t find their targets, they had a habit of shooting up innocent people. They were organised by some toffee-nosed Johnny who had seen action in Malaya and Kenya. A couple of them went a bit too far and ended up in court. They were found innocent, of course. Group of fucking cowboys. ‘
‘You knew some of them?’ Wilson asked.
‘I was operating in Mid-Ulster at the time. The MRF were exclusively Belfast. They were located in a special compound in the Palace Barracks in Holywood.’
‘How long was the unit active?’ Wilson asked. He noticed that McDevitt was letting him do all the talking.
‘About two or three years, then the politicians got a bit nervous about British soldiers in plain clothes driving around shooting people. Some of the killings were actually properly investigated. The RUC collected forensic, and took statements. The investigations were the basis of putting British soldiers in the dock. That’s the only place you’ll find traces of the MRF. Most of the records concerning the unit were destroyed by the MOD.’
‘And they were disbanded when?’ Wilson asked.
‘Around ‘74,’ Hodson said. ‘I think the boys in your photo definitely belonged to the MRF. ’
‘But I thought you said it was disbanded.’
‘The MRF was disbanded, but it spawned other units. Some people looked on the MRF as a prototype.’
‘And serving RUC officers were involved?’ Wilson asked.
‘So I’m told. Sure, half the murder gangs in Mid Ulster at the time contained serving RUC officers. There was a large crossover of membership of the RUC and the UDA. Collusion isn’t just a word in a dictionary.’
‘That might explain the lack of evidence in my case,’ Wilson said. ‘No forensic, sloppy investigation.’
‘Sounds plausible.’ Hodson extended his hand to Wilson who took it. ‘Its been g
ood to meet you. I’ve got to be away. Good luck with the investigation.’
‘Do you ever wish you hadn’t blown the whistle?’ Wilson asked.
‘There’s a lot of innocent people lying in their graves today because of what people like me did. I have to live with my own part in their deaths for the rest of my life, but I, at least, want to set the record straight.’ Hodson started to walk away. He was joined by Power with the minder five steps behind.
Wilson and McDevitt stood on the pier watching the retreating backs. ‘Was it worth the trip?’ McDevitt asked.
Wilson looked out to sea. There was a stiff breeze blowing from the direction of the Irish Sea carrying with it the acrid smell of ozone. He could feel particles of seawater in the air from the waves hitting against the pier. He was tired. ‘Yes,’ he said still staring at the ocean.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The trip back to Belfast was uneventful and silent. McDevitt dropped Wilson at Queen’s Quay before heading for the offices of the Chronicle. He had a Skype call with his new agent in London. The bruise on McDevitt’s jaw had turned from blue to yellow and he looked like someone who had jaundice on one side of his face. Wilson contemplated being dropped off at Dunmurry but he couldn’t see any useful purpose in spending a few hours sitting in his office wondering what to do next. It now appeared that the shooting of the two young men had been carried out by some rogue element of the British Army aided and abetted by a cover-up engineered by the RUC. It was not the first such killing and the news of the probable culprits wouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone. He made himself a cup of coffee and flopped down on his sofa. He couldn’t escape the feeling that he had been led to this conclusion not by good investigative work but by clues in his path for him to find. He was certain that Sinclair and Jackson were plants but why should they lead him to a conclusion that might point the finger at the Special Branch as being involved in two murders. His feelings about his own performance were ambivalent. He could go back to Michael Lafferty and tell him that his son’s murder was probably a random act committed by British soldiers in civilian clothes. He might explain that a sergeant of the RUC had been employed to clean up the scene and make sure that no forensic evidence of the crime remained. But he could not tell him who had shot his son and what was in their minds when they fired the shots. He sipped his coffee and went to the small dining table that doubled as a desk. He laid the photograph that was delivered to McDevitt on the table. He knew that he had recognised the background. Hodson was right. It was the rear of the Palace Barracks. He looked at the faces of the men and tried to guess their ages. There were several twenty-year-olds. That meant there were possibly some sixty-year-olds who could supply him with the final pieces of the puzzle. The question was how would he gain access to them. The MOD had disavowed all knowledge of the Military Reaction Force. Documents were destroyed. He wondered what the response would be to a request from a PSNI task force to provide names and address of the survivors of the group. He could guess. He finished his coffee and switched on the TV. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, much too soon for his regular appearance at the Crown. He flicked through the channels looking for an American crime show. He needed to watch a programme where a murder could be solved in less than sixty minutes.