Death on the Line: A Northern Irish Noir Thriller (Wilson Book 7)

by Derek Fee

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Travelling along the B35 on a pleasant sunlit day through an area of sedate farmland, dotted here and there with well-kept houses, Wilson imagined most people would struggle to understand the horrors that had been perpetrated by people from such a peaceful land in the recent past. In the lexicon of Northern Ireland the expression ‘bandit country’ has been associated with the area of South Armagh. However, in effect there was no area more dangerous than the small square box of land in mid-Ulster that has the town of Moy at its epicentre. Gibson was driving and Wilson spent the short trip reacquainting himself with the area. He had last visited nearby Moygashel in pursuit of Sergeant Albert Ramsey, who had been instrumental in the investigation into a murder in which Wilson’s father had participated. Maybe that was the reason he was so silent. Or perhaps he was struggling with the feeling that the man sitting beside him was not the colleague that he seemed. He was a little surprised when Gibson left the B35 to cut through back roads to the small B130.

  Wilson spoke for the first time on the trip. ‘You know this area fairly well then?’

  Gibson smiled. ‘I should, my father was the local doctor in Dungannon.’

  ‘So you’re a local lad?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Then you probably know Walter Hanna?’

  ‘Only by reputation.’

  A few miles outside Moy, Gibson turned onto a narrow tarmacked road and headed deeper into the countryside. They travelled almost two miles on the ever-narrowing road before Gibson pulled into a square farmyard that was surrounded by three neat buildings. The farmhouse stood on the far side of the entrance, while barn-like structures were located perpendicular to the house. From an outside examination the Hanna farmstead looked prosperous.

  Gibson parked the police Skoda Octavia next to a new Toyota Land Cruiser. Wilson was about to descend from the car when he heard barking and saw two large black dogs coming from behind the farmhouse and running directly at the car. He quickly closed the door.

  ‘People in these country areas usually have a few dogs rambling around.’ Gibson didn’t venture to open his door. ‘How are you with dogs?’

  Wilson looked at the two large dogs of indeterminate paternity slavering just outside the window. ‘I had a Jack Russell when I was younger.’ He didn’t bother to add that the dog was high maintenance and disappeared mysteriously after two years. Given his father’s good humour at the disappearance of the dog, Wilson concluded that he might have played a central role in that ‘disappearance’. ‘I don’t suppose that you’re some sort of dog whisperer?’

  Gibson shook his head.

  Wilson looked up when he heard the door of the farmhouse open and saw an elderly woman dressed in a housecoat standing in the gap.

  ‘Jess, Buddha, heel.’ The dogs immediately reacted to the woman’s voice and slunk away. ‘Ye can get out now,’ she called to the new arrivals.

  Wilson opened his door slowly while keeping an eye on the progress of the dogs back to the farmhouse. The farmyard in front of the house was cobbled and thankfully there was no sign of animal urine or excrement. He walked slowly towards the open door. He caught a movement to his left and glanced at one of the sheds to the side of the house. A dark-haired young man was watching his and Gibson’s progress towards the house. As soon as he saw that Wilson was looking at him, his head disappeared. Wilson turned back to the woman standing in the doorway. She was small and stocky with her grey hair tied back in a bun. Her round face had a ruddy complexion, and she had the overall appearance of someone who had worked hard all her life. He immediately assumed that he was looking at Mrs Walter Hanna. Wilson didn’t like the idea that he was working as hard as he could at destroying the life of this kindly-looking woman. He took his warrant card from his pocket and walked up to her. Gibson walked two steps behind.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Wilson.’ He held his warrant card out for inspection. ‘And Detective Sergeant Gibson from Armagh.’

  The woman barely glanced at his warrant card but looked over his shoulder at Gibson. ‘Are you Henry Gibson’s wee cub?’

  Gibson nodded. ‘Aye, I am that.’

  ‘Then you’re welcome. Your father’s well I hope.’ She moved inside to permit them to enter.

  Wilson permitted Gibson to step forward and enter first.

  Gibson nodded at the woman as he entered. ‘Aye, still fishing and playing a bit of golf.’

  They entered a corridor that ran the length of the house and the woman ushered them into a room just inside the front door. There were two couches set up on either side of a large stone fireplace and a television sat in one corner.

  ‘You’ll be wantin’ to speak with himself.’ She stayed by the door. ‘He’s out back. I’ll call him and put the kettle on for tea.’ She closed the door behind her.

  The two police officers stood close together without speaking. After a few minutes, the door opened and Walter Hanna walked into the room. Wilson still had his warrant card in his hand and he went to open it.

  Hanna put his hand up. ‘Susan told me who you are. She’s gone off to make the tea and don’t forget to tell her that the scones are the best you’ve ever tasted.’

  Wilson wasn’t sure what he had expected. The man who stood before him had aged well. His file gave his age as seventy-one, but he looked ten years younger. He had a full head of dark hair above an aquiline face and his long body was thin. Like his wife, Walter Hanna looked like he had endured a lifetime of hard work. What most attracted Wilson’s attention were his eyes. He had had a glimpse of what lay beneath when he had examined Hanna’s photograph but the reality was so much more notable. The expression ‘dark pools’ had become a cliché but it was the perfect description of the two orbs that stared back at Wilson. They were the eyes of someone who had viewed horrors. The two men stared at each other waiting to see who would blink first. The spell between them was broken by a cough from Gibson.

  Gibson coughed into his handkerchief for a second time. ‘Sorry, I’m afraid I’ve caught a bit of a cold.’ He hadn’t caught a cold but he had felt a chill go down his spine at the way Wilson and Hanna had reacted to each other. The room felt charged with electricity. ‘Do you mind if I sit?’

  ‘Where are my manners?’ Hanna said. ‘Take the weight off your legs.’

  As soon as they were seated Hanna looked from Wilson to Gibson. ‘A superintendent and a sergeant, I’m certainly getting the full treatment this time. What can I do for you?’

  Wilson noted that there was no special greeting for Gibson and no mention of the illustrious father. ‘Your name has come up a few times in our current investigation.’ Wilson was still trying to get a measure of the man. Hanna was completely unfazed by them. He sat totally relaxed in his chair and he could have been conversing with a couple of old friends and not two suspicious police officers.

  Susan Hanna entered the room and placed a tray containing three cups and saucers and a plate of scones on a small corner table. When the tea had been distributed and a scone was in the possession of each of the three men she left again, closing the door behind her.

  Hanna bit into his scone. ‘You were saying, Superintendent, that my name had come up in passing.’

  Wilson started buttering half his scone. He bit into the soft cake and decided that he wouldn’t need any encouragement in order to compliment Mrs Hanna on her baking. ‘We were wondering whether you could account for your movements on the night of September thirteenth.’

  Hanna sipped his tea and reflected. ‘That would have been last Monday?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  Hanna put his empty teacup on the floor. ‘I have two sons, Superintendent. Henry lives here with us and helps out on the farm. Mark lives in Moy. Every Monday night we meet in Spencer’s for a couple of drinks. It’s like a tradition for us.’

  ‘And you left at what time?’ Wilson asked. He was impressed by Hanna’s sang froid. This was a man who had been interviewed dozens of
times by various police officers about very heinous crimes but who had never stood before a judge. After reading his file, Wilson had no doubt that putting Hanna behind bars was going to be difficult. Now that he’d met the man, he was beginning to doubt whether it would be possible.

  ‘About eleven o’clock.’

  ‘And what did you do then?’ Wilson looked at Gibson and saw that he was taking notes.

  Hanna smiled. ‘I’m not a young man, Superintendent. There was a time I could do the drink and the late night. Now I either do the drink or the late night. I went home to my bed like a good man.’

  ‘And your wife will vouch for that?’

  ‘She will.’

  ‘You went home alone?’

  ‘No, Henry’s a light drinker. He drove me home.’

  ‘So, there is no way that you could have been seen just north of the village of Aughnacloy in the early hours of Tuesday morning?’

  Hanna laughed. ‘No.’

  ‘And what would you say if I told you that we had a witness who can place you in Aughnacloy in the early hours of Tuesday morning?’

  ‘I’d say that he had a hell of a lot more to drink than I had that night.’ Hanna was affecting a bored look. He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, Superintendent, but unless there’s something else I’ve got work to do. I’d be glad to supply you with the names of boys who were in Spencer’s at the time. And of course, Susan will vouch for me being at home.’

  Wilson didn’t like the fact that it was Hanna who was bringing the interview to a close. Nor did he like the insinuation that they didn’t have work to do. ‘I’d be grateful if you would write out a list of names for us.’

  Hanna picked up a pen and sheet of paper from a side table and scribbled four names before handing the sheet to Wilson.

  Wilson took the paper and folded it carefully before putting it in his pocket. ‘There may very well be some additional questions but we can leave them for another time.’ He stood up and looked at Gibson, who put away his notebook and pen.

  Hanna stood and opened the door for them.

  Wilson and Gibson walked to the door and stood outside. Susan Hanna came from the back of the house and stood with her husband at the door.

  Wilson was about to walk away when he turned back. ‘Those were positively the finest scones I’ve eaten.’

  She beamed a big smile and then watched the two peelers make their way back to their car. As they left the farmyard, she turned to her husband. ‘Don’t you be underestimating that man, Walter. He’s not like those fools you dealt with before. He’s a handsome bugger but there’s something in that face you should be wary of.’

  ‘Get off with you, woman. A peeler is a peeler is a peeler.’

  She shook her head. Walter Hanna was one of the most obstinate creatures that God put on the Earth. What was in men that made them so bone-headed, she wondered. If she were in William’s place, she would be very wary of Superintendent Wilson. She had done her best to pass on that message, but sure Walter never listened to her anyway.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Wilson was in reflective mood as Gibson drove back along the narrow lane towards the A29. He had the habit of analysing his performance after an interview, and he gave himself an eight out of ten. Hanna was a tough nut to crack and what had happened at the farmhouse was not really a battle but more of a skirmish. They reached the A29 and turned right towards Moy. As they reached the outskirts of the village, Wilson said, ‘Let’s drop in to Spencer’s. You know where it is?’

  ‘Moy consists of a couple of streets, I think I might be able to find it.’ Gibson followed the A29 through the centre of the village. He saw Spencer’s about a hundred metres ahead and found a parking space outside a cafe.

  Wilson slid out of the passenger seat and motioned for Gibson to follow him. He stood on the pavement and examined the bar. Spencer’s was a three-storey building that had probably started life as a two-storey one as the windows in the slate roof looked to be the result of an attic conversion. The middle section was red-bricked and included four white wooden sash windows. The ground floor had a plastered exterior that had been painted black and was in need of a new coat of paint. Wilson waited until Gibson had joined him on the pavement. It looked like the Moy equivalent of the Brown Bear or the Queen’s Tavern. ‘If it didn’t already exist, someone would have had to invent it.’ He didn’t have to explain the remark to Gibson. He walked ahead through the open door of the bar.

  The inside was very much as Wilson had imagined it. Spencer’s was exactly what it said on the tin. He doubted that the young men of Moy would be bringing their favourite lady there on a first date, or indeed any date. The atmosphere was male and one could almost taste the testosterone in the air. The man behind the bar had tattoos on his tattoos, most of which were related to his political affiliation. He looked warily at Wilson and Gibson as they entered. Strangers were a rarity in Spencer’s. The chatter in the pub stopped as the new arrivals were appraised. Wilson had no doubt that they had already been marked as police officers. He walked up to the bar. ‘A pint of Guinness for me and half-a-lager for my friend.’ He considered adding in a clean glass but decided that might be a step too far. He could almost see the wheels turning in the barman’s mind. Should he comply with the drinks order or should he shuffle the unwelcome patrons out? In order to facilitate the mental calculation, Wilson took a ten-pound note from his pocket and placed it on the bar. The appearance of the money had the desired effect and the barman started pulling the pint. Wilson glanced round the room. There were five men in total. Two seated at one table and three seated at the bar. A restrained conversation had started but was several decibels below the level when they had entered. Wilson took the drinks and his change and went to an empty table where he had a view of the room. He took a large gulp from his pint and waited while Gibson sipped his lager. ‘Not the friendliest pub I’ve ever been in.’

  ‘I think they may have recognised us as police.’ Gibson set down his glass. ‘And the people around here are not very police-friendly.’

  ‘What would happen if we were a couple of passing tourists?’ Wilson looked at the faces of the five men. ‘You think these fellows would find a place in the land-of-a-hundred-thousand-welcomes troupe.’

  Gibson started laughing. ‘I doubt it. Anyway, what are we doing here?’

  ‘Taking a look at Mr Hanna’s alibi and it’s as sound as the Rock of Gibraltar.’

  Gibson finished his lager. ‘But you haven’t checked it out yet.’

  Wilson drained his pint. ‘Ah, but I don’t have to. Just looking at the patrons convinced me that a man like Walter Hanna would be alibied here even if he was caught on camera committing a crime elsewhere.’ He picked up the glasses, stood up and returned them to the bar. ‘Nice little establishment you have here. I might take to dropping in regularly.’ He saw the look of consternation on the barman’s face. ‘Only joking,’ he said as he moved towards the door.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Harry Graham and Peter Davidson were seated in the Rex bar on the Shankill Road enjoying an afternoon beer and comparing notes on their fruitless search for Gillian McAuley. Both men had been born and raised in West Belfast and knew the area like the back of their hands. The fact that they had failed utterly to find neither hide nor hair of McAuley was a source of amazement and disappointment to both of them. People don’t just disappear off the face of the Earth in the tight communities of Northern Ireland.

  ‘What do you think?’ Graham asked.

  Davidson took a long drink of his lager before answering. Half his mind was still thinking about following up with Mrs Carlisle. ‘There’s something very badly amiss. I don’t like it when snitches I’ve known for twenty years turn down a twenty-pound note. Most of them would rip your hand off for a tenner.’

  Graham signalled to the barman for a couple of refills. There was no point in continuing to pound the pavements. If he had been Gillian McAuley and if he were responsible for the
death of his child, he would have got as far away from Belfast as possible. Perhaps it was as simple as that. They couldn’t find McAuley in Belfast because she was no longer there. The barman returned with two fresh glasses and placed them in front of Graham and Davidson. Graham fished in his pocket for the money to pay for the drinks but the barman shook his head. ‘They’re paid for,’ he said, nodding at the opposite end of the bar.

  Graham looked along the bar and immediately recognised their benefactor. He nudged Davidson, who was busy examining messages on his mobile phone. ‘We’ve just been bought a drink by Eddie Hills.’

  ‘Ah shit.’ Davidson closed his phone. He had thought the day couldn’t get weirder, but he had been wrong.

  Hills left his position at the end of the bar and joined Graham and Davidson. He stood directly behind them. ‘What brings two of the thin blue line to a bar like the Rex to drink with the riff-raff of the Shankill?’

  Graham looked over his shoulder. ‘Nice suit, Eddie, it’s good to see that the economy is on the up if the riff-raff can afford thousand-pound suits.’ He turned and looked at the other patrons, then smiled. Graham had known Hills since he was a young lad bullying his schoolmates for their lunch money. At the age of eighteen a judge had given him two alternatives: join the army or spend time in a young offenders’ prison. Hills had joined up, done his stretch, earned a medal and then been recruited to the McGreary mob by Davie Best. If the clothes and the stylish haircut were anything to go by, Hills had found his real vocation.