Evidence of Death

by Peter Ritchie

  The door opened and the chief super walked in. ‘Good morning, all. Hope you don’t mind me joining you but I’m interested in progress.’

  None of them wanted the man there, but they couldn’t stop him. He wouldn’t understand most of it anyway and wouldn’t do much damage. They hoped.

  ‘I think we’re all aware that he was drummed out of the Army after a brutal attack on a young Afghan man. Somehow or other he got a surprisingly light sentence, and I don’t know how they wangled that one. As soon as he gets back to Belfast there are a number of assaults on young Asians so we can safely presume that his experience in Iraq and Afghanistan damaged him. We’re in contact with the Army about any psychological profiling they might have carried out, but they seem to have lost the records.’ She stopped and sipped some ice water.

  Macallan’s alarm system twitched; she didn’t like lost records. It did happen occasionally, but too often it was a means of giving someone or something cover. She kept quiet and gave it the benefit of the doubt – what could they do anyway?

  ‘We’ve managed to build up a good profile of his associates and the street dealers he employs. The most important material is coming from the phone billing. The covert team were planting a device in his home address, and they managed to get a look at what we think is his safe phone. I have to tell you that this has been very useful. It’s early stages, but there’s a problem in that one of the numbers he calls on this phone is a detective. There’s still a lot of work to be done on that phone but who knows what might turn up.’

  The chief super almost came off his seat. ‘What detective?’

  ‘DC Donnie Monk. Not someone with the highest reputation, as far as I can gather.’

  ‘What do we do?’ the chief super asked, with no idea what the answer was.

  ‘I think we have to wait and carry out a bit more research until we know what we’ve got,’ Macallan said then paused. ‘But of course, we have to liaise with the Anti-Corruption Department.’

  Everyone in the room realised what that meant. John O’Connor would have to be involved, and he could overrule them in relation to a corruption allegation. Macallan said that moving too soon against Monk might spook the main targets and the chief super agreed but said that he’d have to inform O’Connor so they could start their own research.

  Young continued: ‘We have a few unanswered questions. First there was the surveillance-operation sighting of Nelson meeting a Glasgow criminal, Dominic McGinty. He’s top tier and a ruthless character by all accounts. There’s a full description of him in your paper. The strange thing is that there’s no known contact between them before that. This is backed up by our Glasgow colleagues, who’ve been monitoring McGinty for over a year. The other twist is that it appears that McGinty was Joe Fleming’s main supplier. Unfortunately the Glasgow boys hadn’t mentioned that before.’

  These latter comments triggered the statutory grumbling about Glasgow holding something back, but it was all part of the game. They just liked complaining about the west.

  There were no questions so the analyst carried on. ‘There was the meeting in Perth witnessed by the surveillance team and the details are on your briefing note. This seems to be related to a call he took just before McGinty sat down with him. This was on his registered phone and we were listening to that one. The voice was described as home counties and almost clipped. Military. Nothing was said that would expose the caller, but it did seem to be an arrangement to meet in Perth. There is no trace of the number for the caller.’

  There was a small movement in Macallan’s eyes and she wondered what the meeting meant. She read her notes and thought about the meeting place. The fact that the team got nowhere near it spoke of good tradecraft. Why would Nelson be meeting someone who used good tradecraft? If she had to take a guess, she would have said that whoever it was had received the same training she had.

  ‘On the way back from the Perth meeting Nelson pulled in and made a call. This was to a phone registered to a relative of Jackie Martin, but according to Barry Wallace it was Martin himself using it and they were arranging the shipment coming across in the morning.’

  Young put another picture up on her presentation then hesitated as something came to mind. ‘Before I carry on I should mention something about the incident you are aware of at the hospital. We don’t know why it happened, and the doctor is unlikely to tell us, but I should flag up a couple of points to keep in mind. The doctor was Asian. Nelson has changed physically and doesn’t look his best, and we now know that their meeting took place in the oncology department.’

  Macallan interrupted. ‘Tell us what you think, Felicity.’

  ‘I think it reasonable to assume that he’s had bad news. We already know his feelings towards Asians – or more particularly Muslims.’ There was a moment in the room as everyone tried to consider the implications then Young continued. ‘He’s sick. What we don’t know is how bad it is, and I’ll leave that there for the time being.

  ‘Last point on this issue.’ Young was in her stride. ‘The surveillance team have tracked Nelson to the Potterrow area several times when he’s gone on walkabout. We’ve let him run in there but I’ve had the CCTV checked and it’s the mosque he’s looking at. Sometimes he smokes a cigarette and just watches. Other times he’s gone in, but there’s a restaurant there and they serve great curries so there’s a chance it’s as simple as that.’ She waited for a response and Macallan came in.

  ‘God knows. It may be something or nothing, but we’ve enough to get on with. The fact that he might be very ill doesn’t change anything; it just might make him more unpredictable, if that’s possible.’ She shook her head; there was a lot to consider and a minefield of potential traps if they weren’t careful.

  ‘The next two items should be of interest, but we still need to fit a story around the events. It might well be that this is something that Grace and her team can make use of.’ Felicity thought for a moment then continued: ‘The telephone billing showed that Andy Clark made regular calls to a mobile number and we have just learned that the phone was registered to a Kristina Orlova. Now we only have one snippet of intelligence about her and that is that she worked for Joe Fleming as a top-of-the-range escort. Interestingly, just before he was assaulted, Clark called Orlova, and immediately after that call Orlova called Pat Fleming.’

  Macallan was definitely interested and looked across at Baxter. He was a lifelong hater of these briefings but this information looked to have pressed his buttons.

  ‘We know from the time of the ambulance and police responding that Orlova made a further call to Pat Fleming’s number during the time the police and ambulance were there. And she lives in the block of flats where the assault took place.’

  Young was pleased with their reaction to this piece of news and she could see the questions forming in their minds. She put her hand up. ‘There’s more, but if you can’t hold on then please fire away.’

  Macallan was still surprised that this was how it often seemed to happen: one day you had nothing and then, within hours, the pieces drew towards each other as if by their own accord. It was still a muddle, but these events meant opportunities. All they had to do was grab them while they were warm.

  ‘We’ve also just discovered that Kristina Orlova is the woman who was found unconscious in the hotel. She’s come round and been able to give her name but other than that she’s too weak for an interview. Apparently the doctors want to give her another day before we speak to her.’

  Thompson now knew exactly what it meant that she’d called off the operation at the hotel, and so did everyone apart from the chief super. What she still had to learn was that even experienced surveillance officers sometimes made the wrong call, and it was rare that the team would condemn anyone who’d been in that position.

  ‘One last thing,’ Young continued. ‘Clark has only had one set of visitors and they were Nelson, Fisher and McLean. A staff nurse who works on the ward is married to a traffic sergeant. She wa
s shaken up by Nelson. It seems that the man was annoyed to say the least at Clark and had him by the throat, even in his condition.’

  Macallan knew that it was all relevant but they had yet to make sense of it. Young would at least have one of her famous hypotheses so she asked, ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘I think that with the number and frequency of calls Clark made to Orlova it’s at least reasonable to assume that he used her services on a regular basis.’ She waited for a response but Macallan simply nodded, already forming the lines of investigation. ‘The Flemings have good reason to take revenge on one of the Belfast team but they’re not easy to get at and careful. I think that Clark unwittingly gave them an open goal. We have a description from a neighbour who saw the attackers walk away and it matches the twins, though their faces were covered. They were young men, no doubt about that, and very similar in build.’

  The door opened as the half-time tea and biscuits arrived, but everyone wanted to hear the rest and nobody moved.

  ‘We know that the surveillance team took Billy Nelson to the hotel and there was a loss.’

  Thompson shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and Macallan felt for her, but it was part of the learning process.

  ‘Some time later Orlova was found in the basement and what’s unusual there is that she’d no personal effects. We can’t be sure it was an attack but it’s reasonable given Nelson’s temper, so it would seem he was involved.’ She paused and pushed her glasses up her nose before continuing. ‘We have a single call from Nelson’s safe phone to Orlova before she was attacked – not enough on its own but could now be crucial circumstantial evidence.’

  ‘Pretty careless in one way,’ Macallan mused, ‘and he was lucky that night I think. Or let’s look on the bright side: maybe we’re picking up the luck now.’

  ‘There are other intelligence points in the paper, but that’s all I wanted to say for the moment.’ She sat down but Macallan knew her well enough to guess from the look on her face that there was something else on her mind.

  Then Young stood up again, obviously having decided a final snippet was worth imparting after all. ‘Oh, last but not least, the surveillance team saw Fisher exiting Nelson’s address with what looked like a burst ear, so there’s a good chance there’s dissension in the camp.’ She sat down again.

  ‘You never know, that might just be the kind of break I’m talking about. Nothing better for us than a falling out among the gangsters.’ Macallan said this with a growing sense of confidence. There were lines opening up all over the place and she just had to keep a tight grip of a situation that could run away from them all.

  Thompson still looked deflated so Macallan took control. ‘With your permission, sir?’ She directed it at the chief super, who didn’t want to be there any more. He made his feeble excuses and left. He knew when he was out of his depth, and he didn’t want anyone to ask him a question about something he should have known but couldn’t answer.

  ‘Grant, given what we’ve been told, we need to get the hotel investigation out of the hands of DC Monk. Please do that now. Fix it up with his boss and tell them we need to tie it in with the murder enquiry. Get one of our boys to make sure no one gets near her flat and we’ll have to treat it as a crime scene. Same for the hotel. It’s ours.’

  Baxter left the room wondering whether to bless the Flemings or make their life a misery. He smiled and had that good feeling he got when the doors started to open up on a case.

  When he returned ten minutes later he nodded to Macallan. ‘It’s done. They’re getting a hold of Donnie Monk to take the case off his dirty little hands.’

  When Thompson stood up and said she needed to get on the road for the drugs job Macallan asked to speak to her privately for a minute. They found a side office and Thompson closed the door behind her. She looked beaten, and that wasn’t the way to lead a team on something like the Jackie Martin job.

  ‘Listen, Lesley, we’ve maybe not been the best of friends since you started but let me give you a bit of advice. What took place at the hotel could have happened to anyone. We’ve all done it. Just learn from it. In my opinion you have the makings of someone who can do this and do it well. Just learn. For today, go out there, do the business and no one will remember the hotel. Christ, look what happened to me in Northern Ireland!’

  Thompson’s face was set and Macallan had no doubt she was learning and asking herself questions.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I won’t let you down.’

  She left the room, and if Macallan was right she meant every word.

  After that, Macallan decided there was no time like the present and told Baxter that they were going to head in and see Andy Clark. He might not talk, but it wouldn’t do any harm. They would use the guise that they wanted to look into his assault and then see where it went. It would probably end with the words ‘Fuck right off’ if he was anything like the Loyalists she’d dealt with in the past, but there was nothing to lose and she wanted to at least try to connect with the man who seemed to have pissed off Billy Nelson.

  34

  Donnie Monk arrived at his office and though he’d never felt better than shit for longer than he could remember, this was worse. And although feeling crap had become the norm, the combination of his drugs of choice and threats every way he looked had turned his life into a swamp, both physically and mentally. The instruction from Nelson had nearly scrambled his circuits, so he’d taken his usual course when problem solving by snorting the last of his gear and then emptying a bottle of the cheapest vodka he could find.

  That’s when he’d done it. He’d dipped into the gear he’d got from Nelson’s boys for the plant. He’d told himself he’d only taken a couple of lines (or was it more?) from Nelson’s packet so who’d notice?

  He knew he should have planted the gear as soon as it had been delivered the day before but he’d found any excuse to avoid doing it. It should have been a simple plant. Make it look like a good professional concealment, maybe the back of the cludgie cistern, then go back like a brilliant sleuth and find it.

  ‘Fuckin’ simple, Donnie boy,’ he said as he pushed open the door of the corridor leading to the CID general office. Despite the words of encouragement he’d muttered to himself, his heart thumped against his sternum, and he was in a mild panic that he might just fall over. All his energy was gone, and he was running on empty. The priority was to get the plant over and done with; it would be the first job of the day. They’d given him the house keys from the girl’s bag so entry wasn’t an obstacle. The problem was that he was a walking ruin, and to make it worse he’d slept in the clothes he was wearing.

  He knew that in this job it was almost impossible to hide personal crap so he must have been like a firework display on the Eiffel Tower. His investigations were rock bottom, solving nothing unless he could steal a bit from it, and he was making the fatal mistake of claiming piles of overtime. If there was one thing that lifted the rubber heels’ noses to the stink of a bent cop it was some lazy bastard filling his or her pockets with no effort. A bent officer who locked up loads of villains was one thing, but a lazy bastard taking the piss and claiming overtime was quite unforgivable.

  He arrived ten minutes late for duty, which wasn’t bad by his standards, and as soon as he walked through the door the DCI called him into his office. He’d been feeling sick anyway because he hadn’t had breakfast or any kind of food since the burger that should have come with a health warning the day before. When you added to that the nervous element caused by carrying a rucksack containing nearly a quarter of a kilo of high-purity gear and scales, the nausea became almost overwhelming. Monk sincerely hoped he wasn’t going to throw up all over the DCI’s carpet.

  The DCI was newly promoted and a good one. Still young, flying through sheer energy, and if he could he would have lived in the office. Monk was a disgrace as far as he was concerned, and when he could spare the time he was going to make it his priority to get rid of him. Unfortunately no one in thei
r right mind would take him off his hands as a swap or transfer. But he was taking the piss with his overtime so he’d make a start with that.

  Monk put the rucksack under his desk and went into the DCI’s room. He didn’t like his boss one little bit – he was too new and didn’t understand the old ways. There’d been a day when Donnie Monk had been a name, and this smart fucker had obviously forgotten all that.

  ‘Jesus, Donnie, have you seen the state of yourself? Sit down.’ The DCI rifled through some papers and seemed distracted. ‘I’m too busy to talk now but we need to make time to have a longer chat when I get some free time.’

  Monk wanted a cigarette and noticed that two buttons had popped in the belly region of his shirt.

  ‘The thing is, I’ve had a call from Grant Baxter on behalf of Superintendent Grace Macallan. They’re doing the Fleming murder mystery, and don’t ask me why but they’re taking over the incident at the hotel because they think there’s a connection. That’s fine with me; we have enough to do, and as far as I know you’ve done next to nothing on it anyway.’ He waited for Monk to deny it, but it was the truth so he kept his mouth shut.

  ‘They’ve found the girl’s address and are sealing it off as a crime scene, which we should have been able to do . . . But we are where we are.’ He waited for a denial, but it was still the truth and there wasn’t a word Monk could say to change it, so he continued: ‘We’ve a new start today, here for a couple of months of assessment to see if she shapes up. I want you to take her to a couple of jobs and see if it does you any good at the same time.’

  Monk’s breathing turned into a wheeze and his skin took on the colour of recently kneaded putty.

  ‘Are you okay?’ the DCI asked, hoping he didn’t have a coronary occlusion taking place in front of him; he was just too busy.

  ‘I’ve been putting a lot into that job, sir,’ Monk said, coming near to pleading as the decaying roof over his head finally gave way. But they both knew that Monk’s claim was bollocks and wasn’t going to make any difference.