by Derek Fee
‘Elizabeth Rice would have been dead in six to twelve months if someone hadn’t bothered to murder her. ‘
‘Unfortunately they weren’t to know that, and they wanted to make sure that she died. Do you have time for a coffee?’
‘Sorry, the next client is about to be wheeled in. This one appears to have died naturally, but we shall have to wait and see.’
‘What about the blows to the head?’
‘They accomplished their purpose. My assistant will take an impression, and we’ll send it to the pathology lab. We should have some idea of what the blunt instrument was, but I wouldn’t like to speculate any further except to say that it was something very heavy. Given that the impacts came from behind and the strikes appear to have been right to left. I’d say you’re looking for someone who is right handed. But you’d already deduced that from my commentary.’
‘I’m at least that much of a detective. Anything else worth noting?’
‘Other than the fact that this woman ruined her body with cigarettes and booze?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll review the transcript of the tape later and if anything strikes me, I’ll get on to you. ‘
They both turned as a gurney entered the room with an enormous naked man on it.
‘Duty calls,’ she said accepting a new surgical outfit from her assistant. She nodded at the man on the gurney. ‘And somebody is wondering why he got a massive heart attack.’
CHAPTER 7
The crime scene photos arrived, and a set was already attached to one of the whiteboards. Wilson went into his office and opened a copy of the photos on his computer. He went through them one by one, enlarging them as he went. He didn’t note anything of significance, but he decided to wait for the full forensic report. He was still examining the photos when his phone rang.
‘My office, now,’ Chief Superintendent Spence, the boss of the station was not noted for being longwinded.
Two minutes later and three flights of stairs higher, Wilson knocked on Spence’s office door and entered. The Chief Superintendent was seated at his desk. He had dispensed with his uniform jacket, his black tie was loosened, and the top button on his shirt was open. Things were indeed serious when the Chief Super could be considered to be casually dressed.
‘What a royal screw-up,’ he said nodding at the chair in front of his desk. ‘Please tell me that we’re making some progress.’
‘I’m just back from the autopsy, ‘Wilson flopped onto the proffered chair. He had worked with Spence for five years, and they were not only colleagues but friends. And given Wilson’s relationship with PSNI HQ, he needed every friend he could get. Spence was eight months away from the compulsory retirement age of 65. He had a full head of grey hair, and his obsession with golf had kept a paunch at bay. ‘The bloody bugger jumped the gun,’ Wilson continued. ‘Lizzie was riddled with cancer and would have been dead in six to twelve months. Peter Davidson is organising a house-to-house but since I haven’t heard from him, I must assume that nothing has surfaced so far. There are no CCTV cameras in Malvern Street, but we’re checking the available CCTV in the area. I wouldn’t hold out too much hope though.’
‘You mean to tell me that someone just breezed into the Shankill and killed a prominent Loyalist and then buggered off and nobody saw anything.’
‘That conclusion is a bit premature. We have all our resources out there at the moment, but it doesn’t look fantastic.’
‘The DCC has organised a press conference for fifteen hundred hours. He wanted to catch the late editions of the newspapers.’
‘And the six o’clock TV news, no doubt.’
Spence smiled. ‘We’ll need a statement, so draft something positive that the DCC can say. We hear that there’ll be two to three hundred rioters on the street to-night. Send me the draft and I’ll forward it to HQ so that the spin doctors can get at it. Any news of Sammy?’
Wilson stood up. ‘We’re expecting the explosion any minute.’
Although Wilson wasn’t aware of it, the explosion was already taking place four floors below in the reception area of the station. Wilson’s mobile rang as he was descending the stairs to the Murder squad room.
‘Help,’ the Desk Sergeant said simply.
A mini riot was taking place in the reception area by the time Wilson arrived. Sammy Rice’s blond locks were in full flow as he flung every manner of invective at the Desk Sergeant. The former leader of the UVF in West Belfast was surrounded by five of his leather-jacketed troops who were adding to the commotion as much as they could. The Desk Sergeant who was no shrinking violet himself had stood back from the counter separating him from the mini mob.
‘OK, everyone shut the hell up,’ Wilson shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Everybody out except him,’ he pointed at Sammy Rice. For a moment, there was a stunned silence. Just as the shouting was about to begin again Wilson said. ‘I’m going to arrest every man still in the reception area in one minute and charge them with affray. Sergeant put Mr Rice in the soft interrogation room, and I’ll join him there in five minutes. If these men are still here in one minute, call out the station and have them all arrested including Mr Rice.’
Wilson waited until he saw Sammy give the troops the signal to disperse.
Wilson carried two cups of coffee as he entered the ‘soft’ interrogation room. He placed one in front of Sammy Rice and one on the other side of the table. He held out his hand. ‘Condolences on Lizzie. I’m sorry for your trouble.’
Rice took the proffered hand and shook it.
Wilson sat down and blew on the coffee before tasting it. ‘Canteen crap,’ he said nodding at the cup. ‘The coffee machine is bust.’ He looked at Rice – the blond hair, the tan, the designer jeans and leather jacket. Rice had put on a bit of weight since Wilson had last seen him. The additional weight gave Rice’s unlined face a cherubic look. It was a face that totally belied the nature of its owner. Rice wouldn’t have got to where he was without being a thug. But he was a thug with a brain. Wilson knew that men with that combination could be very dangerous. Right now, Rice was taking on the mantle of the grieving son.
‘She was a feisty auld mare,’ Rice said lifting his coffee cup and following Wilson’s example by blowing on the liquid before tasting it. ‘But she didn’t deserve to be battered to death in her own home.’
‘I know it’s no consolation, but she was on her way out anyway. The pathologist did an autopsy this morning. She was riddled with cancer and had six months, maybe twelve. I’ll get you a copy of the findings when it’s available.’
‘When can I see her?’
‘She’s in the Mortuary at the Royal. I’ll make the arrangements whenever you’re ready. I’d wait a while if I were you. I’m afraid she’s not a pretty sight.’
‘I already talked to the auld boy,’ he sipped the coffee. ‘I hear that she’s a bit of a mess.’
‘That’s putting it mildly. We’ll get whoever did it,’ Wilson tried to put a confidence into his voice that he didn’t feel.
‘Aye, you’d better. Because if you don’t, I will and the kind of people I’ll put on the streets won’t be wearing kid cloves. The point here is not that someone waltzed into the Shankill and murdered Lizzie Rice. The point is that someone waltzed into the Shankill and murdered Sammy Rice’s mother. That can’t be allowed to happen.’
‘Was it about you or her?’
‘You think the Taigs were involved or one of my associates maybe?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Count the Taigs out. They wouldn’t bother with yesterday’s news. Lizzie might have been a target twenty years ago but not today. And I’ve no problem with the Taigs right now. Killin’ each other is bad for business. I’ll be checkin’ out my associates myself. Ye haven’t a fuckin’ clue, have ye?’
‘It’s early days. We’re still looking at possible lines of enquiry.’
Sammy drained his coffee cup. ‘You’re not a fool, Mister Wilson, far from it. The b
oys’ll be on the streets this evenin’. There’ll be some ruckin’ and a few motors’ll be burned. They’ll be out there every night until you catch the bastard who murdered my mother. So my advice is to get your arse in gear and get someone behind bars.’
‘I think it would be more useful if we didn’t have to expend vital resources keeping your people in check. Why don’t you call off the dogs until the funeral is over?’
‘You people need to feel the pressure,’ Rice stood. ‘You’re right, shit coffee,’ he said on the way to the door.
CHAPTER 8
Wilson’s team assembled at two o’clock in the afternoon to review the progress on the case. The whiteboard now contained a picture of Lizzie as she had been before someone had cleaved her head in. A selection of crime scene photos of the living room was set out beneath and a map of the area around Malvern Street.
‘Peter, nothing from the house to house?’ Wilson asked.
‘Not a sausage, Boss. All sorts of people were going hither and thither, but nothing concrete.’
‘Moira, what about CCTV?’
Moira moved to the whiteboard and pointed at the map. ‘Nothing inside the streets behind the Shankill. The first CCTV point is where the Shankill Road meets the Westlink.’
‘The City Fathers don’t give a bugger about the Shankill,’ Harry Graham said. ‘The Safer Belfast CCTV scheme covers only the area around the University. Let’s take care of the students but leave the other poor buggers with no cover.’
Wilson turned to McIver. ‘Ronald, anything on threats to Lizzie?’
McIver coughed to clear his throat. ‘She’s been out of the public for a while except for a few sorties during the flag protests. It’s all the young people now, Boss. Nobody has given a shit about Lizzie for quite a long time.’
‘Keep on it. Check with her friends. See how things were with Billy. It’s a bit convenient him being sprayed with Mace and then conked out during the murder. We need to know everything about Lizzie. She was the target and there has to be a reason. We need to find that reason.’
Chief Superintendent Donald Spence stood next to Wilson as both watched Deputy Chief Constable Roy Jennings press the flesh of the large contingent of reporters gathered in the Press Centre at PSNI Headquarters. Judging from the number of journalists present, and the number of TV stations represented the world had not forgotten Lizzie Rice or her fight to keep Ulster British. Her murder and its method were big news.
‘That’s the way to make it in our game,’ Spence said nodding in the direction of Jennings.
‘That’s the way to make it in every game,’ Wilson said. ‘The shit always rises.’
‘Some day, Ian, some day,’ Spence said. ‘That wee bastard is going to have your guts for garters.’
‘Aye, but I’ll be ready to go by then. And he’ll not have an easy ride.’
It was five minutes to three o’clock, and the PSNI Press Officer was gradually getting the assembled journalists to take their seats. The hubbub was decreasing when Jennings indicated to his junior officers that they could join him at the top of the room. The DCC was wearing his dress uniform as was the Chief Super. Wilson was dressed in plain clothes, that is if one could consider a white Boss shirt with a blue Armani tie and a grey Canali suit plain. Jennings led the way to the top of the room followed by Spence with Wilson bringing up the rear. An outsider might think that the line up had been decreed by height rather than status. Jennings stood at five foot six in his platform shoes; Spence was a healthy six feet while Wilson towered over both at six feet three. They reached the podium and sat behind the cardboard triangles bearing their names. Jennings had centre stage.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he began. ‘First on behalf of the Police Service of Northern Ireland I would like to extend our condolences to the family of Elizabeth Rice. We are appalled that such a prominent member of the Loyalist community could be so viciously murdered in her own home.’ Jennings allowed a pregnant pause for his words to sink in. ‘As many of you will be aware, the Senior Investigating Officer on the case will be Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson, head of the Murder Squad. Superintendent Wilson is one of our most experienced officers and is currently following several lines of enquiry. We are hopeful for an early arrest. I would like to take this opportunity to request the Loyalist community to remain calm. Early indications are that there is no sectarian aspect to this heinous crime. A disproportionate response from the Loyalist community will not help this investigation and will only divert resources from crime prevention. I would, nevertheless, call on any person who has direct or indirect information concerning this crime to phone the Crimebusters phone line. Thank you.’
Wilson was pleased that he hadn’t been called on to say a few words since there was very little he could have added. He would have sprouted the usual tosh about his team being totally committed to solving the Elisabeth Rice murder. He looked at the mass of journalists who started to raise their hands, and he saw a figure he recognised. Maggie Cummerford, the former crime reporter of the Belfast Chronicle, was staring directly at him. Wilson hadn’t seen her for months and had assumed that his insistence that she retract an article concerning a Professional Services Division investigation into his handling of the arrest of his former boss put paid to her career. Their eyes linked together and she slowly raised her right hand and made a childlike goodbye wave at him. Wilson simply smiled and turned to see that the DCC was fielding questions. This was a risky business, but every answer from Jennings would prove just how on top of things he was. Wilson was tempted to stand up and leave, but that might be seen as a sign of disdain for his superior. Fuck it, he thought and stood up. He walked slowly out of the Press Room leaving Jennings in full flow.
CHAPTER 9
The meeting of the Murder Squad team at six o’clock that evening represented the end of the first day of the investigation into Lizzie Rice’s murder. The riot, or more correctly the embryonic riot, had already kicked off in the Shankill and rush-hour traffic was being diverted. The signs were ominous. It was going to be a long night for the thin blue line. Wilson hadn’t heard from Kate, and he was hoping that she was following his advice concerning getting home early. He also hadn’t eaten and was equally hoping that Kate had the foresight to think about dinner. Since they both had taxing professional lives, the fridge was generally found wanting when an impromptu meal had to be put together. Thank God someone invented takeaway.
‘Peter, anything?’ Wilson asked.
Peter Davidson didn’t even bother to answer. He simply shook his head.
‘The forensic report has arrived, Boss,’ Moira said. ‘There’s a copy on your computer, and I’ve been going through it for most of the afternoon. It looks like Billy Rice’s evidence was on the spot. They found evidence of a mace-like substance on the door. There is evidence of someone grabbing at the wall in the hallway corroborating Billy’s statement. Most of the fingerprints in the house were Billy’s and Lizzie’s although there are quite a few others. Eliminating the other prints is going to be a nightmare, although four sets of the fingerprints found belonged to Sammy Rice and three of his cronies.’
‘Check them out for alibis,’ Wilson said.
‘Already on it, Boss,’ Moira said. ‘There was a mass of blood around, all of it Lizzies. There were as we know no defensive wounds on her hands so it’s safe to say that she was attacked from behind. There could be no resistance after the first blow. ’ Moira was about to continue when her mobile phone rang. She pressed the green button and listened, then cut the line. ‘Pathology lab. They’ve been in contact with forensics. It appears that your new best friend, Professor Reid, sent them a cast from Lizzie’s head wound. They haven’t completed their investigations, but it looks like the assailant use a ball hammer, whatever that is.’
‘It’s a very wicked tool and an interesting choice of weapon,’ Wilson said. ‘I have only three preliminary conclusions. One, Lizzie was the specific target. She was not a victim of circumstance. Bi
lly was lying prone on a chair, and he wasn’t harmed other than being zapped with a Taser and possibly given a blow to the head. So someone wanted Lizzie and Lizzie alone. Second conclusion concerns the wound and the choice of weapon. The murderer wanted Lizzie’ head caved in. There was no stabbing or shooting. It was a premeditated attack on the head. Why only Lizzie and why was the head so important? If we can answer those two questions, we will have some idea who the murderer might be. Three, the use of Mace and a Taser-like weapon to disable Billy. This is someone who either knows something about physiology or who has done some research. That means it could be any of the million people in Northern Ireland who can use the Internet. Personally, I don’t think that any of these questions will be answered easily. That’s where we have to go. It’s in Lizzie’s background. Now we have to find it. Anything else?’
The team remained silent.
‘First thing to-morrow morning, we start on Lizzie. I want to know everything about her from the day she was born until the day she died,’ Wilson returned to his office and switched on his computer. A list of fifty e-mails ran along the page.
‘Want to see the press conference?’ Moira asked from the door.
Wilson glanced at his watch. ‘It’s over.’
Moira held up a tablet computer. ‘The wonders of technology.’
They watched a rerun of the press conference. The TV camera caught his departure and also DCC Jennings’ reaction to it.
Wilson smiled. ‘I’m going to pay for that.’
‘You’re incorrigible.’
‘That’s a big word like arsehole.’
‘There are ladies present. How’s the baby coming along?’
Wilson explained the photo from the scan and his difficulty discerning a baby in it.
‘You’re not only incorrigible; you’re also a Neanderthal. You know the guy I’ve been seeing lately.’