Evidence of Death

by Peter Ritchie

  Macallan knew that it wasn’t the time for a long arduous interview and they still had to work out whether she would help, but she’d decided to be straight up with her. Billy Nelson’s world was going to fall no matter what, and Macallan was determined she would be the one to make it happen. More than that, she wanted him to know she was there, looking for the evidence that would put him away.

  ‘We believe the man who assaulted you is responsible for a number of terrible crimes. It’s my intention to see him charged and in front of a court, but we have a lot to do to get there. We can’t do it without help. With you or without you we’ll get him, but your evidence would be crucial in showing what he is.’ Macallan sat back and looked up at the clock that told her that half her time was already gone and the doctor was hovering outside.

  Orlova’s lip trembled and she squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she was home and that all of this had been a bad dream. Baxter and Macallan let her be as she shook with emotion, which prompted the doctor to come back into the room and say that the interview was over.

  ‘I can identify the man who hurt me. I want him to go to court,’ Orlova said and her expression told them she meant it.

  Macallan put her hand on Orlova’s forearm and smiled. ‘We’ll come back whenever you’re ready. I’m going to make sure that there’s a police officer here at all times to keep you safe.’

  The doctor made them leave and they went back for another drink to think about what had happened. Macallan was sitting staring into the distance when Baxter came over to the table with a couple of steaming teas. Coffee or tea – it didn’t really matter to her as long as it was drinkable.

  ‘What about that then, Grace?’

  ‘I don’t want to get carried away because they could both change their minds. How often does it happen? But this feels promising, no doubt about it. Cheers.’ She lifted the plastic cup as if she were toasting him.

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘It would be Sod’s Law if we take off and Clark decides he’s ready to speak, but I think we should take a chance and leave it for the night. Give them both plenty of time to think it over and start fresh in the morning, though I think we should have a couple of officers stay with Orlova.’

  ‘Fine for me. And I think you’re right about the uniform protection. I wouldn’t put it past that bastard to come back to try and finish the job either.’

  Macallan decided on a change of plan and told him they should go for Banjo Rodgers right away.

  ‘He’d not usually answer the door to police, but I can call him first and tell him we’re looking into the death of his girlfriend,’ Baxter said.

  Andy Clark wondered how it had all turned out this way. He’d never wanted to be a big name; all he’d ever thought he’d be was a proud member of the UVF who’d helped fight PIRA to the negotiating table. When peace came he’d been fine with it. The other boys were bored, but for Clark it didn’t matter as long as they got by.

  When Nelson had returned it had been like the start of a new life and he’d been sure that the man had rated him and what he could do. If Nelson wanted him to dish out violence that was fine – it had been like that all his life. But now it was all just so much shit and he was hurt – badly hurt. The doctor had explained to him that he might always have problems with walking and there’d be pain that the doctor said they could manage. What did manage mean? All he’d ever had was physical strength and an unshakable determination once he was given a job. But Nelson had betrayed him; there was no other way to see it. Taking over the drugs business from the Flemings was fine and that was just how things happened, but Nelson had gone too far where the women were concerned. He was a disgrace and Clark couldn’t work for him again, but the final straw was Kristina Orlova. Clark had near begged him to leave her alone but he didn’t give a fuck what any of his team felt or wanted. It was all about Billy boy. He had changed from the young man who went off to the Army and he looked sick now, but talking to him was impossible. He hardly spoke to the boys now unless it was to give them an order.

  ‘Fuck Billy Nelson,’ he murmured.

  The sedation took a grip and he slept.

  36

  Banjo Rodgers picked up the phone and saw there was no name against the number. He answered the call but didn’t speak, a habit from years of being careful, but Baxter knew the drill and spoke first. He explained who he was and that they still had some routine work to wrap up in relation to Maggie Smith’s overdose.

  Banjo had run into Baxter a couple of times in the past and knew that he had fuck all to do with dope but would be involved in an OD investigation in Leith. He agreed to see them and thought he could watch from his window to make sure they didn’t have a posse with them when they arrived. He was almost out of gear and all that was in the flat was a bit of herbal, which shouldn’t be of any interest to them. If it did then they had fuck all to do as far as he was concerned. In any case, it would be good just to speak to someone other than the usual line of losers who came to his door for a bit of gear.

  He was still struggling with Maggie’s death. They’d shared so much – had leaned on each other when they needed to – but now she was gone, and he missed her every day.

  He was still dealing for Nelson’s team, but they were the worst kind of animals. Worse than the Flemings by a mile. They treated him like shite and whatever he did, it wasn’t enough. They increased prices almost weekly and taxed him to the hilt. They’d managed to piss off every dealer in Wester Hailes, but so far no one had had the guts to take them on, although there was a story circulating that the quiet one had had his legs and arms done, but no one was sure who’d made the move. No one thought it was the Fleming twins – they were too young and had a bit to learn yet. But whoever had done it, it made no difference: someone had been able to get to them and it sent out a signal that Nelson was mortal, just like everyone else.

  Banjo felt physically sick every time Fisher came into the flat and spoke to him like he was the dog crap on his shoes. He never stopped thinking about the sight of Fisher laughing out loud as he’d pushed the hot iron against Maggie’s breast and the smell from her burning flesh. He swore that if he ever had the chance he’d make an exception to his normally non-violent approach to life and knife Fisher in the eye.

  He watched Baxter and Macallan arrive and saw there was no suggestion of anyone else hanging around. All the same, when Banjo opened the door to them after they’d climbed the stairs – knowing the usual state of tower-block lifts – he immediately looked behind them for some sneaky bastard, ready to jump in. But it was just the suits so he relaxed.

  He took them through to the lounge and sat them down, offering a brew-up. The place was relatively clean so Baxter decided he’d risk it, though Macallan declined.

  ‘How’s it going, Banjo? Long time no see,’ Baxter said, knowing that Rodgers was no trouble and definitely not one of life’s nasties.

  ‘You see it all, Mr Baxter. Just trying to keep my nose clean. Gettin’ too old for any nonsense,’ he shouted back from the kitchen.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about Maggie. Hellish way to go.’

  Banjo came through to the lounge, poured out a couple of mugs and offered the biscuits someone had been flogging cheap in the pub the night before.

  Macallan had to admit that Baxter could bullshit with the best –a typical career detective who was able to keep it going for as long as necessary. He chewed the fat, went over some details in the death report but kept away from the real business of the day, inching towards it slowly because he knew that trying to turn Banjo wouldn’t work with a full frontal. They had to let him make the first move to get there.

  Banjo talked and smoked and Macallan sat back and let Baxter do his thing; he knew how it worked and was getting it right on the money.

  ‘Keep your head down though, Banjo. There’s a bit of trouble cooking up, and we’ll be coming down hard on some people if you know what I mean.’ Baxter said it like it was a racing tip from an old
friend.

  Banjo wasn’t sure what he meant, but he wanted to know. Knowledge for a drug dealer was what kept you out of the pokey.

  ‘What’s that then, Mr Baxter?’ He lit another cigarette and the room filled with dense blue smoke, much to Macallan’s annoyance.

  ‘It’s those Belfast boys – bad fucking karma so stay clear of them. One of them, Andy Clark, is in hospital and won’t be running the marathon again.’ He leaned a bit closer to Banjo. ‘We’re all over them, and they’re about to get a lesson.’

  If there was one thing Banjo Rodgers wanted it was to see them dead or inside for a long time. He knew Baxter wasn’t bullshitting because it was the talk of the steamie that Clark had been given the message with a couple of pickaxe handles.

  He nodded at Baxter and Macallan and asked them if they wanted another cup. They didn’t but they knew he was thinking over his options and wanted to give him time.

  ‘I’m not missing this one so go ahead,’ Macallan said. She hadn’t said a lot but Banjo liked the look of her and she seemed okay.

  He went into the small dark kitchen, filled the kettle up and waited on it.

  In the lounge Macallan gave Baxter a look and he nodded at her. It was going just about right.

  When Banjo returned to the lounge Macallan noticed his hand was shaking as he poured out the brew.

  ‘You okay?’ she asked softly, and on instinct put her hand on his. The gesture was small but enough for a man starved of affection. Banjo sat back, put his hands on his face and sobbed loudly and wetly. It was an enormous release of tension and his shoulders shuddered with the effort.

  They let it happen, and Baxter poured out a mug for Banjo and put it in front of him. Eventually his sobbing became quieter so Macallan pulled out a packet of tissues and shoved them in his hands. His face was red, blotchy and wet with tears and snot. He took the tissues and wiped his face.

  ‘Fuckin’ murderin’ bastards – murderin’ Irish bastards.’ He broke down again. The detectives were used to seeing raw emotion, but it was hard not to be moved by the genuine grief being displayed in front of them.

  He managed to calm himself eventually but until then they kept quiet and let him be.

  ‘Who’s that, Banjo?’ Baxter said. It was time to push the door.

  Banjo shook his head at some inner thought and looked up at them with anger sparking in his eyes. ‘I’m not a grass but if there’s any way I can help you with those fuckers, just tell me.’

  The hard bit was trying not to show their own emotion when they made this kind of breakthrough; they just had to sit back and let him dictate the release of information to the point where there was a clear agreement that he was on board.

  ‘Just talk to us. Tell us what happened in your own words,’ Baxter said and pushed the mug further towards him.

  Banjo was still shaking but he held the mug with both hands and sipped at his strong black tea. He told them everything. Some of it just personal recollections about the life that Maggie Smith had shared with him, such as it was, and much of it was of no use to them, but Macallan was fascinated and wanted to hear it all. He told them about the Flemings and about the years when things had been more or less stable.

  When he came to the night that Nelson and his team had come to the door he left nothing out. They didn’t have to ask any questions at all, and Macallan found herself visualising the scene in the flat that night and imagining Maggie trying to deal with what had been done to her. She felt a tear wobble out of the corner of her eye and had to stifle the thoughts swimming round her head.

  In the end they were there for hours, although no one watched the clock. It was as if the three of them had been locked in a bubble where time had almost stopped.

  Eventually Banjo went quiet and looked at them for a response. Macallan didn’t really know what to say, but Baxter did.

  ‘They’ll pay, son. Don’t worry about that, son – they’ll fuckin’ pay.’ It sounded trite, but it worked for Banjo. He smiled weakly and felt exhausted. So did the two detectives who’d watched his grief.

  ‘We need to get a statement,’ Macallan said, and Banjo nodded in agreement. They couldn’t delay – Banjo was wide open and they had to grab the opportunity with both hands in case he changed his mind later. It often happened. ‘Maggie’s away and it’s doubtful what the fiscal would be able to do with what happened to her, but it would be powerful evidence to support the other crimes.’

  Banjo nodded and was thinking ahead of them. ‘Just take me out of here as if I’m under arrest, we can go down to the station and I’ll do it there.’ He thought for a moment and remembered that they were still in the real world. ‘What do I tell them if they ask? They’ll hear that I was lifted.’

  ‘Tell them that we were investigating the burn marks on Maggie’s body and you were suspected of the assault.’ Macallan paused to make sure he got it, then continued: ‘Look him straight in the eye when you tell him and let them think about that.’

  ‘You’ve got it.’

  About three hours later Baxter came into Macallan’s office and put a glass of liquid in front of her, and it was the right colour. They clinked a toast – they’d taken the first steps, and it was a good feeling – but what Banjo Rodgers had told them had hit a nerve and there was no place for backslapping. They were dealing with a disease that had to be cut out and burned.

  ‘In a way what we heard is a mark of our failure,’ said Macallan. ‘We can’t protect people like Banjo and Maggie. We can wipe up after, but they’re wide open and whoever replaces Billy Nelson will be able to walk in and do the same and then we’ll come in again with the mop and bucket of soapy water. Cheers,’ she added glumly and they clinked glasses again. ‘What’s happening now?’

  ‘Banjo’s just having some fish and chips on us then we’ll take him half the way home and drop him off. Don’t want him to be seen getting a lift to the door.’ He threw back the rest of his drink. ‘Other than that we have a good statement, so if this goes to court he’ll be a powerful witness. And in a way so will Maggie.’ He poured another double measure for both of them.

  ‘Here’s to Maggie Smith.’ They both raised their glasses.

  Later on that evening Banjo had settled into his seat and was thinking about the day’s events. He sucked in the last of his weed and put his head in his hands, trying to work out what he should do. He’d agreed to help the police but still hadn’t told them that he’d made the call to Nelson that had set up the Flemings. He wondered whether that made him an accessory. He slugged back the last of his vodka, lay down on the settee and slept.

  37

  Jackie Martin turned off the motorway and guided his BMW towards the dock area and the ferry terminal. He handed over his documents to a security man who was wet, frozen through and looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. They’d asked him the usual stupid questions and he felt like making their day by saying, ‘Of course there’s a fuckin’ bomb in the back, guys. Well done.’ He kept it buttoned though, knowing that jokes about bombs would get you some time in a cell and negative headlines. Martin liked to present himself to the world as a respectable businessman now and had to avoid the wrong kind of press.

  He manoeuvred his car into the line for boarding an hour later and felt that just getting out of Belfast for a while was a bonus. Martin and his wife hardly ever managed a holiday, unless you counted the fortnight away each year to the south of Spain where she roasted to the colour and consistency of dried leather while he watched and wished he was back with his favourite escorts.

  He jumped out of the car and headed for the café area in the terminal. It was still dark, and he squinted into the driving sleet that blew across the open car park as he jogged the last few yards to the protection of the terminal building. The wind moaned steadily and he’d been worried that the ferry might be cancelled, but when he’d checked the sailing status, by some miracle it had said it was okay and on time. Short-notice cancellations were common in the winter months t
hough, so part of him wouldn’t feel completely confident until he was safely ensconced on the ferry with the steward performing the ‘first find your assembly station’ routine. There was a steady northwest wind and some swell, but if the ferry was going then that was all that mattered.

  It was still the early hours but the place was starting to buzz with cars piling into line for boarding. He ordered some black coffee in the second-floor café and sat at a window looking out onto a thin strip of water on the land side of the quay. The tops of the waves were whipping into spume and he thought how much Belfast had changed over the years of conflict.

  His mobile alerted him to a text and he pulled the phone out of his pocket. He smiled – it was confirmation that the boys had arrived with the lorry, and from his vantage point he could see them parking up beside the other HGVs. It meant he could relax and enjoy the trip over. He’d used the same cover for years to bring in his gear from Holland and there had never been a hitch. Those Dutch boys knew exactly what they were doing and had that part of the business down to a fine art.

  His supply came into Belfast on refrigerated flower lorries, which on this occasion were being used to shift a load of gear the other way over to Edinburgh. Everything was arranged and would stand up to scrutiny. There was a consignment of flowers to be dropped off on the outskirts of the city and that’s when they’d do the handover. It was a perfect concealment, and the compartment built into the lorry could only be discovered by an expert – or where a rat was at work. Rats were always the worry.