by Derek Fee
‘Hi,’ her voice was cheery. ‘You’ve seen the newspaper.’
‘You should have warned me. I wasn’t aware that you were going to hit such heights.’
‘I’m not. I’m on a list, but it’s a pretty long one. I’m ten to twenty years away from having a real chance. But you know the way the members of the Fourth Estate behave. I’m the youngest candidate, so I’m the story.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘We haven’t talked that much lately. You’ve been busy and quite honestly I prefer to talk about our impending child than my boring job.’
‘According to this article your job isn’t so boring.’ And incredibly well paid, Wilson thought but did not say.
‘Paper talk, I was following your normal instruction on anonymity when I gave you a cursory mention and then only in the context of my pregnancy.’
‘It’s appreciated. So there’s no impending possibility that you are going to be even more busy, than you are now.’
‘Absolutely, I’ve told my clerk that as of the end of the month I am not accepting any new briefs. Although I know you don’t believe it, I’m as committed to having a healthy baby as you are. Now get back to work and find that damn murderer so we can spend a bit more time together.’
‘When this case is over, we’re going to spend a few days in a hotel. I’m beginning to realise that there are sides to you that I’ve never explored. It might even mean introducing a little shop talk into our relationship.’
‘That sounds interesting. Forget the hotel. Let’s just lock the door of the apartment and make believe that we’re the only people left on earth.’
‘I can’t wait. See you this evening.’
Wilson looked up and saw Moira on the other side of his glass door. She was holding a copy of the newspaper pressed against the glass partition, and she was smiling. He motioned her in.
‘Nice article,’ she said noticing the paper in front of Wilson.
‘My partner the superstar,’ Wilson smiled.
‘She’s the woman who has everything,’ Moira said and reddened when she realised that it could include Wilson. ‘Successful career and about to have a baby what more can you ask for.’
‘How’s Brendan?’ Wilson asked.
‘As crazy as usual. Now that he’s met you, he’s fixated. He’s taken to nicknaming me Watson. All his university friends have followed his lead. It’s funny and it makes me laugh, but I wish they’d continued calling me Moira.’
‘I’m glad you’re happy, but I’m afraid that I might lose you at some point.’
‘How so?’
‘Brendan’s on a sabbatical. Sooner or later, he’s going back to Boston and maybe you’ll go with him.’ He noticed her frowning. It looked like she was hearing something that she told herself, but that she didn’t like the sound of.
‘Possible but not probable,’ she noticed the team gathering at the whiteboard for the morning briefing. ‘I think they’re waiting for us.’
Wilson stood before the whiteboard. ‘Where’s Ronald?’
‘Sick, Boss,’ Harry Graham said. ‘Had him on the phone, and he sounded like he was about to croak.’
‘Not convenient,’ Wilson said. ‘We need someone who can work the magic machine, aside from Moira that is. Peter, any movement on the photograph?’
‘Not a lot, Boss,’ Davison said. ‘But it’s early days. It’s definitely the Shankill Branch of the women’s UVF early 1980’s. There are eight women in total in the photo. Lizzie is in the middle with Nancy Morison beside her. I’m told that they were inseparable at the time. I’ve been around the houses in the Shankill, and I’ve identified two more of the women, both deceased. That makes four. The four others are a bit of a mystery at the moment. It looks like a couple have moved away, possibly to England while the other two maybe somewhere in the Province but as yet address unknown.’
‘Nancy Morison’s movements, Harry?’
‘Nothing particular in the past few days. She attended the wake at the Ballygomartin house accompanied by her husband. She was at the funeral and then the graveyard. She went back with the crowd to the ‘Black Bear’, and that’s where the timeline gets fuzzy.’ Graham pointed at the timeline on the whiteboard. ‘ We’re concentrating on the two hours between six to eight o’clock. Traffic has already sent us some disks, and we’re collecting what available from businesses in the area. It’s going to be a thankless task going through all those tapes.’
‘That’s what they pay us for,’ Wilson said. ‘Moira, how’s the research on Lizzie going?’
Moira smiled. ‘It’s an education, Boss. I wasn’t up to speed on the activities of our undercover colleagues during the seventies and the eighties, but I’m learning fast. The material is copious and heavily redacted. There are lots of mentions of Lizzie, and I’ve only just started to include Nancy Morison in the search. The files are so heavily redacted that sometimes I have to guess at what’s behind the black strikeouts. So it’s going to take a while, and it may have absolutely nothing to do with the case.’
‘Keep on it,’ Wilson looked at the rear of the squad room. No sign of wee Maggie. ‘Eric, you help Harry on the tapes. Find me something. And Eric, get Jimmy McGreary in here for twelve o’clock and book the soft interview room. We don’t want Jimmy to get the wrong impression.’
‘OK, Boss,’ Taylor said.
Wilson glanced at his watch. ‘Nancy’s autopsy’s in one hour. Moira, you and me. The rest of you get at it, time’s passing. We have someone out there bashing in old women’s heads. I want to find the bastard.’
The group broke up. Moira joined Wilson. ‘Are you sure that you want me along? Three’s company and all that.’
He looked at her. Both her eyes and her mouth were laughing. Brendan Guilfoyle was having a positive effect on her. ‘I definitely want you along.’
CHAPTER 35
Detective Constable Ronald McIver sat on a chair in his living room. He hadn’t slept a wink. He had returned to the small house that he occupied with his wife at ten o’clock the previous evening. His sister-in-law was already gone, and his wife had been put to bed. Ever since his wife’s mind had begun to slip, he had moved into the spare bedroom so that neither one would disturb the other’s sleep. His wife was often confused and switched on the light at all times of the night. He left the door of the spare room open so that he could follow her movements when necessary. There was, therefore, nobody who could corroborate or not the actual time he had returned home. He wasn’t a big drinker but there was always a bottle of Bushmills on hand in case someone visited. He hit the bottle as soon as he returned home but was unable to get more than three glasses down. Deep down, he knew that he was screwed. He had killed a man, and he was going to have to pay the price. He had played the scene in the derelict school over and over in his mind. Each time he tried to find the salient point that would lead to his arrest for murder. Nobody knew he was there. Unless McIlroy had told someone, and that wasn’t certain. On the surface, he didn’t leave a trace. He thought about what kind of evidence he might have left. He hadn’t touched anything in the school that he could remember. Collecting evidence in a place that had been used by junkies and dossers would be a herculean task. He picked up his coat and felt in the pocket. The shell casings were there. He had been in a fugue state when he had picked them up but he now realised that it had been a smart move. He rubbed them on his jacket and dropped them back in his pocket. He had cleaned the Glock as soon as he had returned home. He had also burned every stitch of clothing he had been wearing. He scrubbed his hands with paraffin and soap in the hope of getting rid of any gunshot residue. Since the ‘Troubles’ started, there were more than five thousand unsolved homicides in Northern Ireland. Why couldn’t the death of Ivan McIlroy be just another unsolved murder? Then it hit him. There was only one piece of physical evidence against him. McIlroy called his mobile phone number early in the day to set up the meeting. His number was on record at the station. Somehow he was
going to have to come up with an explanation for that phone call. He looked across the room to where Mary sat. Her eyes appeared to be watching him intently, but they were dead. He wondered whether she could take in what she had seen him do. ‘How are you, love?’ he said. ‘What about a nice cup of tea?’
No response. Mary was on planet Mary.
He’d called in sick but he would have to face work sooner rather than later. Sammy Rice and his gang would soon miss McIlroy. Maybe they’d already missed him. They would begin scouring Belfast. It would be better if the police found the body first. A call to the confidential police number was in order, but it would have to be made from an outside phone. And he would have to find some way to disguise his voice. Wilson would ask to hear the tape and might recognise him. It was strange thinking of ways of escaping from his boss. The crime seldom caught the villain but the cover-up almost always did. He was going to have to be super- careful. He stood up. ‘I think I’ll get you that cup of tea now, love,’ he said to the unresponsive figure at the other side of the room.
CHAPTER 36
They parked in virtually the same spot outside the Mortuary at the Royal Victoria as they had two days previously. Wilson got out of the car slowly then he, and Moira made their way into the mortuary building.
Stephanie Reid was already gowned and waiting. ‘I thought that you were in a hurry with the autopsy,’ she said as Wilson entered. ‘I have several clients to-day, and I was tempted to make a start on some of the others.’
‘You’re in a happy mood this morning,’ Wilson said accepting a surgical gown from Reid’s male assistant. He nodded at Moira, and she made her way to the observation room.
‘Does she go everywhere with you?’ Reid asked.
‘She happens to be my sergeant and a bloody good one she is too,’ he said pulling on his gown.
‘I suppose it’s no harm that she’s also attractive,’ the smile in Reid’s eyes was mischievous but was not accompanied by a smile on her lips.
‘Already spoken for,’ Wilson put on the green gown. ‘The lucky lad is a visiting professor at Queens.’ He glanced toward the observation room and saw that Moira was busy with her notebook. He realised that without the microphone she couldn’t here what was being said in the theatre.
‘From what I’ve heard that never bothered you before,’ Reid whipped a white sheet off the corpse and handed it to her assistant. The naked body of Nancy Morison was fully exposed. Reid clicked the overhead mike. ‘The body is that of a female of approximate sixty-five years of age. ‘ She did a rough examination of the body noting the marks left by the Taser. Then she picked up a small circular saw and clicked it into life. She started work on what was left of the head.
One hour later, Reid picked up the shower attachment and sluiced the blood off the metal table. While she worked she spoke for the microphone. ‘Nancy Morison died from a blunt trauma to the head. Pieces of a concrete block were still present in the wound. At least three points on the body have marks consistent with an electric shock being administered. An examination of the skin around the mark would indicate that the shock would have been of such a level as to render the deceased powerless. Fluids have been gathered and will be sent for a toxicity screening. The contents of the stomach indicate that the deceased ingested a considerable amount of alcohol in the hours preceding her death. Death would not have been instantaneous. Time of death was between eight and ten in the evening. ‘ She clicked the microphone off.
‘Same killer?’ Wilson knew it was a rhetorical question.
‘Undoubtedly,’ Reid came and stood beside him. She glanced up to ensure that the microphone was off. ‘I saw the article on your partner in the newspaper.’
Wilson didn’t respond.
‘She seemed very professional, very antiseptic. Is she good in bed?’
Wilson made a grimace.
‘Gentleman to the end. I’m told that I’m very good in bed, very professional but certainly not very antiseptic. You know that we’re going to screw each other.’
‘It’s not going to happen,’ Wilson said staring into her blue eyes. His penis was telling him he was a liar. He was trying to ignore its opinion.
‘I’m not looking for a relationship. I won’t interfere with your little miss antiseptic and the future genius she’s about to produce. I just want to screw.’
‘I’m sure you’ll find someone who feels the same.’
‘I know that you feel the same, but you’re trying to deny it. Why bother? What about that drink to-night?’
‘No thanks,’ he looked toward the observation room and saw Moira packing up her stuff. She glanced into the theatre, and they locked eyes before she exited.
Reid smiled. ‘Looking to your attractive sergeant to save you from the big bad lady who wants to screw your brains out?’
Moira opened the door and walked towards them. ‘Got it down, Boss,’ she said holding up the notebook.
‘We done here?’ Wilson asked Reid.
‘The autopsy’s finished. Sorry I can’t make it for that drink.’
Sneaky bitch, Wilson thought. The idea was now planted with Moira that he had asked Reid for a drink.
‘Just as well,’ Wilson said making for the door.
‘I’m almost afraid to ask but what that was all about?’ Moira said as they walked to the car.
‘Nothing,’ Wilson said.
‘Never kid a kidder. I told you that woman is a maneater and she’s decided that she’d like to take a few bites out of you. I couldn’t hear the words, but I was watching the body language. Are you sure there isn’t something you’d like to tell me?’
‘I’m sure. I think that Brendan is Americanizing you. Either that or you’re watching too much daytime television. We’ve got some bugger out there who is killing former members of the Shankill Branch of the women’s UVF. We know that there were at least eight members in the group. Two of them died naturally, and two have been murdered in the past few days. I think it’s time we got our skates on and found the missing four. Any one of them could be the next target.’
Moira pressed the alarm release button on the car key. She really respected Wilson, but he was a man and men sometimes followed their small friend instead of their brains. Wilson had already proved that he wasn’t the exception to the rule. Maybe she would have to have a word with Professor Stephanie Reid before too long.
CHAPTER 37
Jimmy McGreary was already organised with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. Wilson had no idea where the biscuits had come from but assumed the Desk Sergeant had a secret stash that could be produced for special visitors. The godfather who ran the drugs, prostitution and protection rackets in Central Belfast was certainly a special visitor. McGreary was involved in Loyalist paramilitary activity virtually all his life. He had marched on his first twelfth of July at the age of three and had done his first stretch for petrol bombing a Catholic family out of their home at twelve. McGreary had been a footballer in his youth and had played for Linfield, the Protestant team in Belfast. In those days, he was known as ‘Slim Jim’. The man that sat before Wilson in the soft interview room weighed in at one hundred and forty kilos, or twice the weight at which he had played football. Throughout the ‘Troubles’, he had climbed the paramilitary ladder and had played his part in sectarian murders and intimidation. Nothing had ever been proven against him, but the British Government considered him a sufficient threat to intern him in Long Kesh along with other suspected terrorists. When he exited detention after the signing of the Good Friday Agreement, he found that he was at the head of his local paramilitary group. Peace had brought with it a dividend for McGreary in that he could concentrate his efforts on his criminal activities.
‘Mr Wilson,’ McGreary said through crunching biscuits. ‘I’m right fond of this new kind of policing.’ He looked around at the soft furnishings. ‘It’s no like the peelers of old. It’s like being invited to tea at the Europa. Big improvement, big improvement.’
�
��I didn’t realise it had been so long since we’d had a chat on the premises,’ Wilson said taking a seat directly across from McGreary.
McGreary slurped noisily at his cup of tea. ‘My lawyer wanted to come along, but sure I told him Mr Wilson only wants to have a wee talk,’ he raised his eyebrows.
‘That’s pretty much it,’ Wilson said. ‘Just a friendly chat, for the moment.’
McGreary smiled but made no comment.
Wilson looked at ‘Slim Jim’ McGreary. With his rotund stomach and fat florid face, he could have been used as the poster boy for Santa Claus. He had grown a beard since Wilson had last seen him and added a few pounds as well. He may have looked like a genial character from a Dickens novel, but it would be a huge mistake to expect even a drop of the milk of human kindness from Jimmy McGreary. He had been ruthless on the football field, and he carried that ruthlessness into his criminal activities. ‘You know that I’m investigating the deaths of Lizzie Rice and now Nancy Morison?’