Evidence of Death

by Peter Ritchie

  Martin had used the same lawyer for over fifteen years and the man had been worth the fees ten times over. Bent as a nine-pound note, but he kept himself the right side of the gates at HMP Maghaberry. He decided that when the lawyer arrived the first instruction he’d receive would be to get the boys going on a full enquiry into what the fuck had happened and to put whoever was responsible in the ground – or, if he was in a good mood, a skip.

  In an office no more than thirty feet from Martin’s cell DI Barry Wallace sat and waited for his phone to ring. He’d told the locals he was going to contact PSNI HQ in Belfast and asked for some privacy, but that was a lie. The call he was expecting was from a security-service officer in Belfast. Everyone was still waiting for Martin’s lawyer to arrive before he could be interviewed, but Wallace wanted to speak to him before the local suits. He didn’t like what he was doing; it felt wrong, and he wished the three years he still had to do would pass so he could get out of the business.

  Even though he was waiting for it, he was startled when the phone did eventually ring.

  ‘Everything okay there, Barry?’

  The smugness in the home-counties accent pissed him off. How could it be okay? he thought. ‘Well, he’s locked up and raging so I suppose that’s okay,’ Wallace said, his voice flat.

  ‘It’s agreed here, so go and get the message to him. Billy Nelson’s a liability, and as luck would have it Dominic McGinty’s been helping to fund a dissident group in Londonderry for years. We have to protect the source in Belfast for the future, so it’s the big picture, Barry. You know that.’

  Wallace hadn’t time to answer before the line went dead. He sighed and thought about the number of times the ‘big picture’ line had condemned men to death.

  He went through to an adjoining office and cleared it with the interviewing team that he could have time alone with Martin before his lawyer stormed in the door and started accusing the police of another fit-up.

  ‘DI Wallace, didn’t expect to see you here, but then maybe I should have,’ Martin said as the PSNI detective walked into the room. He felt slightly reassured, because during the height of the Troubles, when Wallace had been a young Special Branch officer in the RUC, he’d helped Martin out of a couple of tight spots. The truth was that Wallace had been trying to turn him as an informant, but he had been only partially successful. Martin had returned the favour with some low-level information on renegade Loyalists who needed a bit of a spell in the Maze, but that was it and he’d refused to become a full-time agent. Jackie Martin only ever did what suited him, and he hadn’t been bright enough to see the benefits of a relationship with the force as the peace process took root in Northern Ireland.

  Wallace sat down and looked Martin straight in the eye. He had to make the man believe every word he said was true.

  ‘How are you, Jackie? It’s been a long time.’

  ‘What brings you here, and how much shit am I in?’ Martin asked, realising that it had to be more than a social visit to bring the DI from Belfast.

  ‘It’s more than the dope we’re talking about here. As we speak the financial-investigation team are taking your world apart in Belfast. They know where you’ve been laundering the money and are all over it.’ He paused for a moment, wanting to let each piece of bad news sink in with full effect. Then he stuck in the next blow a bit further below the belt. ‘They’re breaking down the doors of the saunas and escort services, and the God-fearing section of the public will thank the chief for that one.’ He gave it another moment and watched Martin’s face twitch with shock.

  ‘We’ve been trying for years to find your arms stash. That was opened up about half an hour after you were arrested, and your DNA will be all over it if I’m not mistaken.’

  Jackie Martin had no defence against the news that he was fucked. His hands shook – his world was folding inwards only a short time after he’d been imagining his new life in Edinburgh. His throat tightened and he tried to stop himself gagging up his breakfast.

  Wallace pushed a cup of water over the table and Martin swallowed it, holding it with both hands to try to control the shakes.

  ‘The thing is, we’ve been watching you and listening to you for years.’ Wallace said this, but it was only part true – the lie was necessary to protect the source in Belfast. If Martin thought the PSNI had done part of it through brilliant detective work then that was a result.

  ‘Jesus, is there anything I can do to help?’

  Martin was pleading. Wallace had never thought he’d see the day. Then again, he thought, the truly evil bastards like Jackie Martin tended to fall over the easiest when they were facing twenty-five years in Maghaberry.

  ‘You should have thought about that a while ago, Jackie, when I first made you an offer.’ He put on as sympathetic a voice as possible and tried his best to pretend he cared about the murderer sitting opposite him.

  Martin looked up and the reality of his position brought back some anger to replace the fear. He tried his best to show a bit of bravado to the detective, who almost felt sorry for him. Martin was like a child being played by men. The ex-UVF brigadier just didn’t get it.

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, that bastard Billy Nelson has questions to answer,’ Martin said. ‘I’m not stupid. He’s part of this set-up. Just tell me, and when we’re back over the water I’ll give you whatever you want about the movement.’

  The detective tried not to sigh with disbelief at the paradox of the statement. Martin wanted to find the informant, who he regarded as contemptible, and then become one himself. Wallace did a good impression of someone who was torn over doing the right thing by Martin. He nodded as if he’d crossed the Rubicon, moved his face a few inches nearer to Martin’s and dropped the tone of his voice as if he was becoming a co-conspirator.

  ‘There’s more to it than just Billy Nelson. He’s already set up with a dealer in Glasgow: Dominic “Magic” McGinty. Can you believe it? A fucking Celtic diehard that’s pumped money into the dissidents for years. PIRA before that.’

  ‘A fuckin’ Taig and Billy Nelson.’ Martin almost moaned the words in disbelief. A dribble of saliva ran from his bottom lip, and he slammed the table with his clenched fist.

  ‘I’m going now, Jackie. At some stage you’ll be taken back over the water and I’ll see you in Belfast. Okay?’ Wallace stood at the door and waited.

  ‘I’ll see you there, and thanks for that. What I said stands, and I’ll do whatever I need to get a deal.’

  Wallace had heard that Martin fancied himself as a bit of a Tony Soprano. He thought for a moment and had to admit that Martin looked a bit like the late James Gandolfini from an angle, which on another day would have pleased the man no end.

  Wallace just managed to get clear of the room before Martin’s lawyer arrived screaming blue murder, which was why only the best criminals could afford his services – the man just loved to give the police maximum hassle.

  Wallace closed the door of the small office he’d been using, which was empty, and sat at the desk for a moment, trying to deal with what he’d done. ‘The big fucking picture indeed,’ he said as he made the call from his mobile.

  ‘It’s done, and he swallowed it without chewing. See you back there.’

  No one spoke at the other end and he put the phone down. The message had been delivered and the wheels were turning.

  Macallan arrived at the station and caught Wallace as he was ordering a taxi for the airport. She saw the tension in his expression and asked him to hang around for a couple of minutes. He nodded and took her back into the office he’d been using.

  ‘Talk to me, Barry. I want to get the stink out of my nose – and remember what my background is. Is the informant who I think it is? I don’t need to say the name, do I?’

  His face and shoulders dropped. Conning Jackie Martin was one thing, but he couldn’t do it with Macallan. ‘You know I can’t tell you,’ he replied. ‘Anyway, the informant works for the security service. That’s where we’r
e getting the information from.’

  He moved to step past her. ‘Look, I have to go.’

  She put her hand on his chest. ‘Just before you go . . . This guy has killed a number of people already, driven one woman to the edge of insanity and another to suicide. I’m going to put him away – and you can tell the service that from me.’ She took a step back and saw that Wallace was struggling with what had happened.

  ‘It’s the big picture again, Grace. Where have you heard that before? All I can tell you is the scores will be evened up. Let’s leave it at that.’ He shook her hand and left for the airport.

  Macallan felt helpless. All she could do was prove the case against Nelson. And that’s exactly what she intended to do.

  In the detention room the lawyer was given time to brief his client before the interview started, but Jackie Martin had only one thing on his mind. He was a middle-aged man who should have been allowed to enjoy the rest of his life on the fruits of his labour, but the rats had gotten to him first. That was unforgivable, and if he was going to end up moving to old age inside the walls of a prison then someone would pay.

  ‘I want you to listen to this carefully. Take these instructions back to my boys and they’ll know what to do.’

  The lawyer nodded; he understood that he had to get this part right and there was no way he was going to argue.

  Martin had never met Patrick ‘Bobo’ McCartney, and it was unlikely that he ever would, but like Bobo, he’d recognised one rat but missed the one that had really got inside his defence. He’d bought the story he’d been told by Wallace and fallen right into the security service’s trap. The big picture meant nothing to Martin – he didn’t deal in the subtle intrigues of the intelligence community and thought the world was what he saw in front of him – so the traitor’s blow that had delivered him to the police had come from someone he’d wrongly thought he knew better than anyone.

  It was his wife who had betrayed him, and when she’d taken the call from the security-service officer that he’d been arrested, she’d kissed the giant of a man standing next to her. Martin’s minder, his confidant throughout the Troubles, had been involved in an affair with the man’s wife for over two years. She’d decided she wanted more and there was only one way to do it, and although the idea that she might be an informant had briefly crossed Martin’s mind, the minder had discounted it as impossible in the circumstances.

  It was a simple, old story really – he’d just fancied the boss’s wife, and she’d felt the same about him. She’d put more than enough safely away and was now rid of her problem, and the minder – who was a practical man – thought he might step into Martin’s shoes after a suitable period of time and, with a bit of luck and muscle, build up the business again in his own right.

  In the same way he’d never met Bobo, Martin had never met Joe Fleming, and he’d ended up making exactly the same mistakes. He’d gone soft. He was still capable of terrible violence, but he’d lost his edge and had stopped seeing the threats all around him.

  The suits interviewed Martin later, and on the instructions of his lawyer he said nothing. The situation was a mess, but when he lay on his cell cot that night he felt confident that it would all work out. He had the best lawyers, a team back home who were right behind him and his wife to back him up.

  ‘No one fucks with Jackie Martin,’ he muttered into the cold dark air of the cell, just before he fell asleep.

  But in the darkness of Martin’s own bedroom his wife stroked her lover’s face and reassured him, ‘Don’t worry – Jackie’s fucked.’

  The security-service officer stared out of his office window into the darkness of the Belfast night. He felt satisfied that everything was going to plan and that one way or another they would clear up a few problems over the coming days. Martin might talk, but it wouldn’t do him much good. His minder would take over, and Martin’s wife would be perfectly placed to keep reporting on the new man at the top. They had her over a barrel, although she hadn’t worked that out yet. She hadn’t realised that one word from them and Jackie would have her gutted and tossed in the river.

  Billy Nelson was going down as well; it was just a matter of who got to him first.

  The spook lifted his glass of gin and toasted his reflection in the window. He hadn’t realised that he was as human as the people he’d sucked into their various traps. He’d miscalculated, and while Nelson had accepted that it was over for him, he still had the ability to dictate events – and the end would come on his terms.

  Nelson looked at his watch and saw it was five minutes to midnight. Pulling himself out of his sleeping bag, he worked the stiffness out of his legs and repacked his rucksack. A few minutes later he was over the boundary wall and walking towards Stockbridge, where he caught a taxi. He’d dropped the Belfast accent again, and with his woollen hat and glasses it would have been hard to recognise him. He took the taxi a few miles south of the city to where he’d already rented a holiday flat for the week – though he wouldn’t need a week.

  41

  Macallan chewed her finger near the knuckle of her left forefinger. She realised for the first time that a hard ridge of skin had formed there, which meant she must have been doing it for a while without being aware of the habit. They’d been given access to the flat Nelson had occupied when he’d first come to Edinburgh, and Clark had explained in detail what had happened to the Flemings the night they’d come to hand out a lesson to the Belfast boys. It was only 8 a.m., but Macallan had insisted on an early start and the head SOCO was viewing the flat before they brought the team in.

  Macallan and Baxter stood outside the door impatiently but knew that the SOCOs couldn’t and shouldn’t be rushed. They discussed Clark’s statement and the problem they now had: Clark had told them that the Flemings had come from Banjo Rodgers’ place and that he’d alerted the Belfast team that they were on their way.

  ‘I’m not so surprised he left that out,’ said Baxter. ‘He probably thinks he’ll end up on a lifer with them. I’ll speak to him later and straighten it out.’

  ‘No problem,’ Macallan replied. ‘And to be honest that’s the least of our worries. Poor bastard was probably terrified to refuse them anything after what happened to Maggie.’

  The SOCO came out of the door and removed the mask from her face. ‘Pretty much as he described,’ she said. ‘He says there was just a wooden floor in the room and that they’d lined it with plastic before doing the business. Is that right?’ Macallan nodded. ‘The council put a cheap carpet down, which isn’t a bad thing, and providing they haven’t steam cleaned it or something beforehand we have a chance. Even with the plastic lining, the beating he described would leave quite a scattering of debris, so a few bits and pieces might have escaped when they were rolling it up. We’ll get on it – see what we can find.’

  She called in the rest of her team and they went to work methodically. If there was something there, Macallan knew they’d find it.

  ‘We’re going up to the other site now,’ she told the SOCO. ‘The hospital have got Clark ready and they’ll take him over there in an ambulance. He’s indicated an area in East Lothian. Are you coming now or waiting till we identify it?’

  The SOCO was already making notes. ‘There’s no way I’m going to miss buried bodies. I’ll leave the team here; the second lot are ready to roll. I’ll get them to head down that way now.’ She seemed genuinely excited by the prospect of digging around decomposing cadavers.

  An hour and a half later they were sitting just outside the picture-postcard village of Gifford, at the foot of the gentle Lammermuir hills. The traffic department had closed off most of the roads until the site of the burials had been established. That had annoyed a few important people in the area, and calls were already being taken from people who claimed to be personal friends of the Chief, but it was ever thus where there were people with money and clout.

  They popped their heads into the ambulance and said hello to Clark, who looked to be sufferi
ng badly in his wheelchair, though the nurse with him was plainly enjoying the break from hospital routine.

  ‘Are you okay to do this, Andy?’ Baxter asked. He knew that lawyers could attack their actions if Clark changed his story and alleged undue duress, but he was still refusing to have a brief present, so they were on safe-enough ground for the moment.

  In the end it was much easier than Macallan had expected – Clark was able to direct them to a wooded area and a dirt track leading off the main road. Macallan could see why they’d picked it. The area would have been almost deserted during the night hours, and any cars coming along the road could be seen miles away. The ambulance carrying Clark drove into the wood, and he told them to stop after about a hundred yards. He was lowered to the ground then started to shake uncontrollably. The nurse gripped both his hands and talked quietly to him.

  ‘We can stop this now,’ Macallan said, knowing that they were still on thin ice and that they couldn’t be seen to force him. The nurse would be called as a witness and couldn’t be expected to do the police any favours.

  ‘I’m okay. I want this done and those boys lying there to be put in the right place.’

  The nurse wiped Clark’s nose and dried his face.

  ‘If you look along there on the left just behind that small clump of bushes. Just behind there in the middle of a circle of trees.’

  ‘Everyone wait here please except the SOCO.’ Macallan didn’t want any distractions.

  They walked as slowly as possible, both aware of the danger of contaminating the crime scene. That meant Clark had to stay back too, though she wanted him away as soon as possible if they were in the right place.