by Derek Fee
Moira said. ‘I’m still searching through the police reports on UVF activities in the seventies and eighties which covers Lizzie’s involvement. Nothing so far.’
Wilson turned and looked at Ronald McIver who seemed a million miles away. ‘Ronald?’
‘Boss,’ DC McIver jumped as though he had been startled.
‘Anything?’ Wilson asked
‘No, Boss. I’m drawing a blank.’
Wilson looked at Moira and she raised her eyebrows as a signal of understanding.
‘OK, let’s move on to McIlroy. Moira the autopsy.’
Moira put down the coffee cup she had been drinking from. ‘Ivan McIlroy was shot twice in the chest at close range; the estimate is two to three meters. In other words, by someone at the other side of the corridor in which they were standing. The pathologist removed two bullets.’ She walked forward and stuck a photo of a two bullets on the whiteboard. ‘These are two 9 mm Parabellum slugs. They are currently with Forensics for comparison testing and for identification of a possible weapon.’
‘I’ve asked FNSI to look at the trajectory of the bullets to give us some indication of the height of the shooter’ Wilson said. ‘That way we’ll be able to say for sure that the Rice and Morison killings are a separate crime from the McIlroy killing.’
‘The killers might be different but the motive might be the same,’ McIver said.
‘What?’ Wilson said.
‘Well, for example,’ McIver continued. ‘If the killings are intended to put pressure on Sammy, they could be carried out by a group which had both a male and female assassin.’
‘That’s possible but a bit in the realm of conspiracy theory’ Wilson said, and he wanted to add that perhaps McIver was reading too many Dan Brown books. ‘We won’t separate the killings until we have all the information.’
‘Forensic will be back on the bullets by this afternoon,’ Moira said. ‘I put a rush on the testing.’
Wilson frowned. This would be reflected in the cost and would impact on his budget. ‘Last point. We have a possible abduction.’ He explained his conversation with McGreary. A look at the change of expression on the faces of his team was enough to tell him that they all understood the implication. ‘This is only hypothetical at the moment. I’ve asked the uniforms to keep a look out for either Sammy or members of his inner circle. I’ve put the word out that I need to speak urgently to Sammy.’
‘Jesus,’ Peter Davidson said softly. ‘Back to the bad old days. If Davie Best is murdered, that’s it. It’ll be tit for tat killings until they run out of foot soldiers.’
‘I’m aware of that,’ Wilson said. ‘So I want all of you to spread the word. I need to speak to Sammy, and I need to speak to him today. So far, Best is not even technically missing, and we have no evidence to confirm that he has been abducted. If we can nip this thing in the bud, it will be better for all concerned. Especially for Sammy and the goons that carried out the abduction. We need to get Davie Best back alive and in the best condition possible.’
Wilson was just settling himself in his office when Maggie Cummerford knocked on his door and entered.
‘Interesting briefing,’ she said sitting in his visitor’s chair.
‘And confidential,’ Wilson said.
‘I stick to my agreements,’ she pulled out a series of pages from her messenger bag and tossed them on the desk in front of him. ‘My profile of you. Not quite so gushing as that piece on your partner but probably more positive than you expected. Over the past week, I’ve spoken to people who played rugby with you and worked with you and even quite a few who claim to have slept with you. I don’t know how my editor will react. I think he might consider my views on your personal life might need to be toned down, but I do have sources for every statement.’
‘And I thought that I was universally popular,’ Wilson said picking up the pages. ‘When can I expect to see this in print?’
‘That’s my editor’s decision. There’s even a chance that he may not publish it at all. But my guess is that he will. Possibly if you manage to solve either the Rice and Morison case, or the McIlroy case.’
‘You sound a bit downbeat. I thought the action of two concurrent cases to report on would be a reporter’s dream.’
‘I’m getting bored with Belfast. It rains too much, and everybody is hung up on religion. It’s like living in the Bible Belt in the States without the compensation of the weather.’
‘No place is perfect.’
‘But some are better than others.’
‘Are you ready to tell me how you got Jennings to permit you to have such access to our investigation?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You’re an interesting person, Maggie.’
She smiled. ‘After researching you, I’m really worried that’s a come-on.’
He laughed. ‘No I mean it.’
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ she said and picked up her bag. ‘Let me know what you think of the piece.
CHAPTER 48
Kate McCann sat at the defence table in Belfast Crown Court and adjusted her gown while listening to the opposing barrister rip into her client. Lunch had been a tuna sandwich and a coffee, the lot consumed in five minutes so that she could attend a client meeting in the middle of what was a difficult trial. Her client, an Irish woman of thirty five, was seeking a Crown Court writ for the return of her two sons who had been abducted and taken to Latvia. Her husband was fighting the writ and had used the well-worn technique of blackening his wife’s character in order to resist the issuance of a writ that Kate would then try to internationalize. She had warned her client that her character was going to be dragged through the mud and to be prepared for the vicious attack from her husband’s barrister. Despite the warning and considerable preparation, her client was becoming increasingly emotional as charge after charge was laid against her. This was the part of the law that Kate hated most, the vilification of one party, usually the innocent one. The emotional garbage that was being stored up by the attack on her client would linger long after this case was settled. She looked up and saw that the line of questioning of the opposing barrister equally perturbed the female judge. The problem was that Kate had sometimes behaved in a similar manner as her esteemed colleague. In representing the interests of her client it was often necessary to destroy someone’s character. It was not the most pleasant of tasks, but she was committed to helping her client recover her children. The opposing barrister was winding up as Kate looked through her notes. By the time she glanced up, she saw that the judge was looking at her. She couldn’t remember her opponent’s last question, but that didn’t matter. She was suddenly very warm, and she could feel sweat on her forehead. Something was happening that she didn’t understand. Her stomach cramped. She knew that something bad was happening, and that she needed to get out of court and into a hospital. She stood up and suddenly the room started to spin around her. She looked up at the judge and saw her through a fog. Then everything went black, and she fainted.
Wilson rushed into the Gynaecology Ward at the Royal Victoria and went directly to the reception desk. ‘Kate McCann,’ he said breathlessly.
The receptionist looked at her computer and then picked up her phone. She spoke into the receiver for a few minutes. ‘The consultant is with her now. Perhaps you could take a seat, and we’ll call you when she’s through.’
Wilson reluctantly moved away from the reception desk and took a seat in the waiting area. The message he’d received was that Kate had fainted during a court case and had been brought to the Royal Victoria as a precaution. He’d been told not to worry, but that was ridiculous. His pregnant partner had fainted and been rushed to hospital, of course he was going to bloody worry. It was at moments like this that Wilson wished that he hadn’t given up smoking. He looked at the other people in the waiting area and considered bumming a cigarette from them. What was he thinking of? He glanced at the wall and saw the no-smoking sign. He would have to go outside to smo
ke and there was no way he was leaving the waiting room until he found out what was happening. He stood up when he saw Kate’s gynaecologist coming towards the reception area.
‘Ian,’ she made directly for him with her hand outstretched. ‘It’s great that you’re here. Would you please come with me to one of the family rooms.’
The ‘family room’ didn’t sound good. ‘Is she OK,’ Wilson said grabbing the consultant’s hand.
‘I really need to speak to you in private,’ she said quickly. She took him by the arm and led him back along the corridor. The gynaecologist pushed open a door, and they entered a room with a comfortable couch and a coffee table. There were magazines and newspapers strewn across the coffee table.
‘I’m sorry, Ian,’ the gynaecologist said as soon as she closed the door. ‘There’s no easy way to say this. I’m afraid Kate has had a miscarriage. She’s lost the baby.’
‘What!’ Wilson shouted. ‘She was fine this morning.’
‘Ian, please sit,’ she guided him to the couch. ‘This is not unusual. Fifty percent of pregnancies end in miscarriage. Luckily, most of them occur before the woman realises that she’s pregnant. Fifteen percent of recognised pregnancies end in miscarriage.’
Wilson was too stunned to speak. He realised that the gynaecologist was holding his hand.
‘The causes of miscarriage are not well understood,’ she continued. ‘Most miscarriages that occur in the first trimester are caused by chromosomal abnormalities in the baby. Chromosomes are tiny structures inside the cells of the body that carry many genes. Genes determine all of a person's physical attributes, such as sex, hair and eye color, and blood type. Most chromosomal problems occur by chance and are not related to the mother's or father's health. There’s no reason why Kate and you won’t have a successful pregnancy in the future.’
‘How’s Kate?’ Wilson asked.
‘As you can imagine, she’s distraught. Like most women, she blames herself, but nothing could be further from the truth. The problem was with the embryo. The miscarriage was a way of clearing up that problem.’
‘Can I see her?’
‘Yes but remember there is no blame here, and you are a strong and sympathetic man. You’re going to need those traits in the coming days. The pain of losing the baby will pass.’ She stood up. ‘Let’s go.’
They stopped outside a door to a private room. ‘Kate’s physically fine. I want her to stay overnight. We have to do a short surgical procedure called dilation and curettage to remove tissue from the uterus. I’ve told her she has to take it easy for a while.’ She pushed opened the door and ushered Wilson in.
Kate was lying in a hospital bed with her head away from the door. Wilson walked to the bed and sat. He put his arm around her and hugged her. She immediately began to sob uncontrollably. He held her tighter. ‘It’s all right,’ he said kissing her on the neck. ‘It’s part of life.’ He tried to turn her towards him, but she resisted.
‘I lost our baby,’ she said haltingly through the sobs.
‘It had nothing to do with you,’ he said. ‘It was just nature’s way of telling us that there was something not quite right.’
She turned towards him. Her face was paler than he had ever seen it, and her eyes had dark circles under them from crying. Her blond hair was wet and lank on her head. ‘That’s what you say now. But tomorrow when you realise that there’s no more baby, you’ll sing a different tune. You told me so. You said I was working too hard. Maybe you were right.’ She buried her head in the pillow.
He lifted her head up and held it in his large hands. ‘I love you. The gynecologist said there’s no reason we can’t have a successful pregnancy. We’ll get over this together.’
‘I’ll never get over this,’ she said through sobs. ‘And neither will you. Every time you look at me you’ll remember that I’m the one that lost your child.’ She pushed her head into his breast.
‘Don’t be silly. We’re not unique and there are lots worse things that could have happened.’
‘Promise me that you’ll never blame me,’ she said looking up at him.
‘I’ll never blame you,’ he said and kissed her forehead. The phrase never say never came to mind.
She looked into his eyes. ‘And promise me that nothing will change between us.’
‘Nothing will change between us,’ he said.
She slumped back on the bed.
The door opened, and the gynaecologist entered with a nurse. ‘We need Kate for a few minutes, Ian,’ the gynaecologist said. ‘She won’t be receiving visitors for a while, but you can come back this evening.’
Wilson lifted Kate’s head and kissed her on lips that seemed lifeless. ‘I love you,’ he said before placing her head gently on the pillow. ‘See you this evening.’
CHAPTER 49
The small estate of Archvale lies in the townland of Newtonabbey in the North of Belfast. Peter Davidson arrived in the labyrinthine housing estate after a short twenty-minute drive from central Belfast. The estate consisted of interlocking streets all containing similar small bungalows. This was the opposite of the rabbit warren of Victorian houses constituting both the Catholic and Protestant areas of West Belfast. Each of the bungalows was detached, and most had a small garden in front. Others had eschewed the garden and created an off-road parking space. Davidson took the precaution of printing out a map from his office computer, and he piloted his car to a spot directly outside the house he was seeking. Without the map and street numbers, it would be impossible to identify a particular house. The residence he was looking for resembled every other house in the street except that Davidson noticed it was a little more rundown than its neighbours. He parked his car and made his way up the short driveway.
‘Yes,’ the woman who opened the door to Davidson was in her sixties with short curly grey hair and a pleasant face. Her blue eyes stared at him across the chain holding the front door at an angle. She was dressed in a housecoat over a pair of jogging pants, and a heavy-knit sweater.
‘Detective Constable Peter Davidson,’ he held his warrant card extended. ‘I called you yesterday.’
The woman made a show of examining the card before unlatching the chain. ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘You can’t be too cautious. Although it’s pretty safe around here with so many people on the streets and all, I’m careful who I let in.’
‘Quite right too,’ Davidson said as he crossed the threshold.
As soon as he was in, she closed the door and slipped the chain back on. ‘I’m Joan Boyle, by the way,’ she said leading him into the living room.
‘I’m pleased to meet you Mrs Boyle,’ Davidson sat in the chair that Boyle indicated. The living room was neat and tidy but in need of redecoration. The carpet covering the floor was threadbare and a couch and two easy chairs that had seen better days dominated the small room. A petite coffee table was placed directly in front of the couch and a 32inch flat-screen TV sat in one corner.
Joan Boyle sat on the couch facing Davidson’s chair. ‘I have no idea what the police want with me, don’t you know. I’ve been fretting all night thinking that I might have done something wrong.’
‘There’s no need to worry I’m part of the Murder Squad, and we’ve been looking into a series of crimes that I’d like to talk to you about.’
‘Oh my God,’ she brought her hands up to her cheeks. ‘What would I know about murders? I hardly ever leave this little house.’ She seemed to be thinking of something. ‘You’ll be wanting a cup of tea, I suppose.’
‘I wouldn’t say no,’ Davidson smiled in order to reassure Boyle that she had nothing to worry about. As soon as she left the room he stood up and examined the photographs that stood on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. There were photographs of Joan Boyle and a man who could have been her husband taken in Malvern Street. A small boy stood between them. There was a series of photographs of a young man, one in Army dress uniform and others drinking with friends. The door opened behind him, and he quickly retook hi
s seat.
‘I hope you like banana bread,’ Boyle said moving to the coffee table and setting down a tray holding a teapot, two cups, a milk jug, sugar bowl and a plate holding two pieces of cake. She poured two cups of tea. ‘I’ll let you do the milk and sugar yourself.’ She sat and watched him as he put two spoons of sugar and a dash of milk into his tea. ‘Now that we’re settled, how can I help you?’
Davidson sipped his tea. ‘You’re originally from the Shankill?’
‘Aye, born and bred,’ she put sugar and milk into her own tea and sipped.
‘You knew Lizzie Rice?’
There was a slight pause. ‘Faith and everybody in the Shankill knew Lizzie. It was terrible what happened to the poor woman.’ She looked up sharply as though something had suddenly dawned on her. ‘You’re investigating the murder of Lizzie and that unfortunate Morison woman.’
‘I’m one of the team investigating those murders.’
‘Who could have done such a terrible thing?’
‘Don’t worry we’ll find them.’ he produced the photograph of the women’s UVF group. ‘Do you recognize this photograph?’ he asked.
She took the photograph from his hands, took a pair of glasses from her housecoat and put them on and then examined the photo. ‘I don’t think that I remember this.’
‘Look at the banner. It’s says ‘Shankill Women’s UVF Branch’. That’s you, third from the left.’
She smiled. ‘Aye, I was a bonnie lass. All the boys were after me.’
‘Can you think of any reason from those days why someone would want to kill Lizzie and Nancy Morison?’
She though for a moment and then looked down to the left. ‘I don’t know why anyone would want to kill Lizzie and Nancy. Sure we were only supporting our men back then. We made tea and sandwiches and things like that.’
And Molotov cocktails for burning Catholics out of their homes, Davidson thought. ‘The feedback we get from the people we talked to in the Shankill is that your group was a little more active than that.’