by Derek Fee
‘The chief constable is very anxious to see this case concluded,’ Grigg put on a stern upper-management look. ‘And he places a great deal of confidence in your specialised knowledge of murder investigations. That being said, all at HQ are singularly unimpressed by the progress so far.’ He gathered his papers together, put them into his briefcase and stood up. ‘I must leave or I’ll be late for a meeting with the CC and ACC. Thank you, Yvonne, I’ll be in touch.’ Grigg shook hands with Davis and started for the door.
‘Pompous ass,’ Wilson said under his breath but loud enough to be heard.
Grigg half-stopped then continued through the office door before slamming it behind him.
Davis stood up and went to her desk. ‘You certainly don’t know how to go about winning friends and influencing people.’ She sat down and took two glasses and a bottle from the lower drawer of her desk. She poured two shots of Jameson.
‘We need to give this up,’ he picked up his glass and tipped it to hers. ‘People will talk.’
She laughed and sipped her whiskey. ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’
Wilson held up his glass. ‘OK, you need to give this up. It gets a grip on you and when it does, one glass becomes two and two becomes three. It’s one of the only failings that’ll stop you reaching the top.’ Wilson thought he had been born with few skills, he could take a pass and either hold on to the ball or let it go at the appropriate time, and he could read people. Yvonne Davis was chronically lonely. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about that. He had few friends himself, a situation that he realised was self-inflicted, but he had Reid and he had McDevitt. He had no idea who Davis had.
‘What about the McAuley boy?’ Davis asked.
Wilson filled her in on the fruitless search and his inability to see the road ahead. When she proffered the bottle for the second time he refused politely and was pleased when she put it away in her desk.
‘Find her, Ian. I wasn’t the best mother in the world, but I never laid a hand on my children. Not that I didn’t want to, mind, as sometimes it felt like they deserved it.’
He could see that her eyes had become glassy. ‘This poor little sod didn’t deserve the life he got. Nobody comes into this world to suffer but lots of children do. Harry and Peter will be on the street tomorrow and every other day until we find her.’ He stood up. There were lots of people on the force who would have envied Yvonne Davis her promotion. People could be so bloody stupid.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
It had been a busy and unproductive day and Wilson was ready for a quiet evening. He envied those people who left their workplace at five o’clock and didn’t think about work until nine o’clock the following morning. He could never switch off. His mind was constantly turning over the evidence trying to find that hidden nugget that would crack the case wide open. The fact that it rarely happened that way didn’t dissuade him from continuing to hope. In his experience, cases were generally cracked by good police procedures applied over a period of time. The US television industry had led viewers to believe that a murder case could be solved in the context of an hour-long drama. That portrayal of police work couldn’t be further from the truth. Many cases take months or even years to bring to a conclusion, and some never reach a conclusion. His bosses at PSNI HQ were aware of these facts. They knew that there were almost three thousand unsolved murder cases in the province. Most of those cases would remain unsolved. Despite this huge base of information, Grigg and his ilk would still think that a murder investigation can be concluded in seventy-two hours.
When he pulled up outside his apartment building, he saw Reid’s car parked further down the street. Despite her assertion that their relationship was simply one of ‘friends with benefits’, somehow or other Reid had managed to get her hands on the key to his apartment and she came and went pretty much as she pleased. The converse wasn’t true. He had never eaten a meal in her apartment or spent the night. Still, his heart brightened at the sight of her car. When he entered the apartment, he heard Ed Sheeran singing about his childhood and Reid was humming along. He stood at the door to the living room and watched her dancing to the music. She was still in her formal work clothes of white blouse and black skirt and she looked stunning.
She stopped moving to the music when she saw him entering the living room. ‘Drink?’
‘Most definitely.’ He tossed his jacket on the couch and took her in his arms. They swayed to the music and he kissed her gently when the song ended.
‘Steady, tiger,’ she pushed him away playfully, went to what passed for a bar and poured him a large whiskey.
‘You’re in good humour,’ he said when she presented him with the glass.
‘My mother is in town tomorrow for one night. We’re meeting at the Fitzwilliam and I want you along for moral support.’
‘Won’t it be awkward discussing family matters with me hanging on every word?’
‘OK, but you’re going to be there. You can be in the bar or the lobby. Anyway, we can discuss tactics over dinner.’
‘We have food?’ Wilson’s fridge was generally empty.
She nodded at a plastic bag on the kitchen worktop. ‘Steak and salad and a bottle of red.’
‘Sounds good.’ Wilson was aware that he was no longer thinking about work when the door buzzer went off. He went to the security unit and looked at the image on the screen. The bulky figure of Jack Duane smiled up at him from the street below and waved. ‘Shit.’
Reid came and stood beside him. ‘For God’s sake let him in, he’s fun.’
Wilson turned to face her. ‘Jack Duane is definitely not fun.’ He reluctantly pressed the button to open the front door. He left the apartment door ajar and returned to the living room.
Wilson was sipping his drink when he heard the apartment door close.
Duane entered the living room/kitchen and dumped a plastic bag on the worktop. ‘An additional steak and a very expensive bottle of plonk.’ He looked at the drink in Wilson’s hand. ‘Yes, thanks, I will have a drink. Jameson will be fine.’
Wilson poured a drink and handed it to Duane. ‘How the hell did you know that we were having steak for dinner?’
Duane tipped his glass to both of them and took a drink. ‘I suppose I’m either a detective or a psychic. You can take your pick. Most people don’t believe the detective part. I’m sorry to gate-crash the dinner but at least I brought additional supplies.’
Reid walked over and showed Wilson a bottle of Barolo. ‘This must have cost thirty pounds.’
‘Forty-five,’ Duane said.
‘What do you get paid?’ Wilson asked.
‘That’s a state secret,’ Duane replied straight-faced.
Wilson and Reid laughed.
‘I’m not joking,’ Duane said. ‘Our budget really is a state secret.’ He took a USB from his pocket. ‘And I brought some after-dinner entertainment.’
‘Let’s open some of this wine and get on with dinner,’ Reid said. ‘I can’t wait to see what’s on Jack’s USB.’
After Wilson and Duane had cleared up the detritus of their meal, Wilson joined Reid on the couch while Duane plugged his USB into the television. Duane took the remote control and changed the source to the USB, started the film and sat beside Reid. ‘This was shot in the parking lot of a pub called the Bottle of Benburb – great name for a bar. We’ve been tailing Keenan for a while and our man on the inside told us about this meeting between him and Hanna. We had time to park a surveillance van.’ They watched and listened to the conversation of the two men.
‘Nothing new there,’ Wilson said when the film ended. He was dismayed at the news that the gun had been dumped. If it were down a bog-hole somewhere they’d never find it. ‘We know that they were there we just have to prove it.’
Duane pointed at the TV screen. ‘We have them on tape saying it.’
Wilson shook his head. ‘You obviously haven’t got an Evidence and Criminal Activity Act in the Republic. That tape would be t
hrown out long before they went to trial. You’ve invaded their privacy for a start. And it looks like they’ve dumped the gun.’
Duane smiled. ‘But they haven’t.’
‘But Hanna said it on the tape,’ Wilson said.
‘He was lying.’ Duane picked up the remote control. ‘Let’s play that part of the tape again. The quality of the picture is perfect so just concentrate on Hanna’s face when he replies to Keenan’s gun question.’
Duane replayed the tape twice. ‘He’s definitely lying when he says that he dumped the gun.’
‘How can you tell?’ Wilson asked.
‘Two things. The first is the quick look down to the left. The second is harder to catch. There are a lot of muscles in the face. Some we can control and others just respond to what we’re feeling. With an actual lie, you may see a micro-expression called duping delight, which is a smile or excited fidgeting that results from anticipation of a successful lie. Feeling like he or she got away with it gives the liar a thrill of pleasure. Let’s play it again and watch out for the micro-expressions.’
Wilson and Reid stared at the screen. ‘My God,’ Reid said. ‘He’s right.’
Wilson turned to Duane. ‘How do you know this stuff?’
‘Quantico, guy called Dr Paul Ekman invented this stuff and he teaches there. I had the pleasure of studying with him. Hanna still has the gun. It means something more to him than a weapon and he won’t let it go easily. It’s like the murderers who take a memento of the murdered person so that they can relive the crime. The gun is Hanna’s connection to his life as a trigger-man. He’s old now and the war is over, but he still needs something that reminds him of the good times. It’s somewhere close by where he can handle it anytime he feels like reliving the past. You just need to find it.’ Duane stood up, walked to the television and removed the USB. He handed it to Wilson. ‘It’s a present. You can do what you like with it. We’re not advertising that we have it, so the guys at Castlereagh will only see it if you give it to them. Of course, if you do that you’ll drop me in the shit, but I’ve been there before and I always survive.’
Wilson slipped the USB into his pocket. ‘I’m going to take a run at Keenan tomorrow.’
Duane didn’t retake his seat. ‘Let me know how you get on. He could be the weak link, but he’ll have to be leaned on hard. My guess is that if you spook him he’ll run south. Then he’ll be mine.’ He bowed to Reid, then took her hand and kissed it. ‘Thanks for a beautiful dinner and, since I’m not very good at playing gooseberry, I’ll wish you both good night.’ He headed for the apartment door.
Wilson caught up with him as he opened the door. ‘I’m glad you’re on my side, Jack.’
‘Always, Ian. I know a good guy when I see one and there aren’t too many in our business. Take care of the lady. The two of you are good together.’ He disappeared through the door and closed it after him.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Eddie Hills was driving a black cab along the Grosvenor Road. He occasionally glanced into the rear mirror to survey the two occupants in the back seat. Gillian McAuley was lying across Mickey Duff’s lap. She had been high for most of the day and was now semi-comatose. Hills had been instrumental in convincing Best that she posed a threat to their drug operation. If McAuley made it into the cells of Tennent Street station, Duff wouldn’t be far behind. He would in all likelihood be charged with murdering the boy and although it might be reduced to manslaughter by the PPS, there would be enough of a jail sentence involved to induce him to look for a deal. Since Hills was the one that pushed getting rid of the problem permanently, Best had given him the job. Hills held a short discussion with Duff and ascertained that before moving into his place, McAuley had been living in an abandoned house on Earlscourt Street. They decided that it was the kind of location where a dead body might not be found for weeks. It depended when the next batch of kids broke in.
It was already dark when they arrived in front of their destination. Hills had changed the plates on the cab to ensure that even if they were picked up on CCTV, the car couldn’t be identified. He waited in the cab while Duff jemmied the front door, then he shut off the engine and helped Duff half-carry the stoned woman into the house. The place was a shithole but perfect for what they had in mind. They carried McAuley into the front room and set her in a chair.
Gillian McAuley lifted her head and stared at them. Her eyes flickered and she tried to stand, but she didn’t seem to have control of her legs. She watched Mickey and his friend as though they were in a movie. She looked round the room and smiled when she recognised it. She was home, but there was no sign of Josh. He was the best thing in her miserable life. She tried to clear her head. She hadn’t seen Josh for a couple of days. Not since he and Mickey had that row and Mickey took him outside. She sat up straighter and saw that Mickey’s friend was heating a spoon and there was a syringe in Mickey’s hand. She held out her hand. The bastards were going to shoot up and leave her out. She shouted but only a garbled mess came from her mouth. She fell back on the chair and wondered why she hadn’t seen Josh. He was her lovely fair-haired boy. She watched Mickey filling the syringe from the spoon and then walking towards her. She loved Mickey. He was so good to her. She loved him almost as much as she loved heroin.
Two doors down from the abandoned house, Artie Ward switched off the TV and doused the lights. He’d heard a car pull up outside so he’d left his chair and moved to the window. He didn’t need a visit from the petrol bomb mob because he’d been a nosey parker. He saw the two men take the woman out of the rear of a black cab and bring her into the abandoned house. Unless he was badly mistaken it was the little prossie who had been living there with the young boy. He stayed still behind the curtains of his front room when they went inside. It was the first time he’d seen people arriving at that house by taxi. He sat beside the window for a good half-hour until the two men came out the front door. They were very mismatched. One was a well-built young guy wearing a woollen hat well down over his face, while the other one was small and scrawny. The big fella looked around furtively before taking his place behind the wheel. The scrawny one was messing with the front door and when he was finished he joined the man in the cab. As soon as the car was out of sight, Ward put the light on and turned the television back on. He put his hand in his pocket and took out the card that the peeler had given him. ‘DC Harry Graham,’ he read out the name on the card. He supposed that he should give him a call and tell him about the goings-on at the derelict house. He’d got a good look at the two men, but he wasn’t going to tell the peelers that. There was many a man in Belfast who had rued the day he’d stood up in court and given evidence. He put the card on the side of his chair. He’d sleep on it before he made the call.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
When Wilson woke at seven o’clock, Reid was already gone. Nothing new. He put on his running gear and despite the view from his living room window showing dark clouds threatening rain, he set off on his usual route to the east of Queen’s Quay. His thoughts turned to the Kielty case. He was still nowhere with establishing the presence of Hanna and Keenan at the scene and although Duane was sure that the gun was still in Hanna’s possession, finding it was not going to be easy as there are a lot of places on a two-hundred-acre farm to hide a gun. He heard a rumble of thunder in the west and increased his pace. The rain was imminent and although he was wearing a rainproof jacket he didn’t need a drenching. He made his turn just beyond the Titanic Exhibition Centre and made for home at a good pace. Physical training had been part of his life for as long as he could remember. He was still a child when he started going on runs with his father and had been introduced to the pleasures of the gym at the age of ten. His father adhered to the theory of ‘a healthy mind in a healthy body’. He thought of Hanna and Keenan again and how they used defunct political philosophies to justify their descent into criminality. Maybe they should just accept that they were criminal first and guardians of their politics by extension. He finish
ed his run, had a quick breakfast and left for the station.
Harry Graham and Peter Davidson were already in the squad room in deep conversation when Wilson walked in.
‘Nothing overnight?’ Wilson asked, pulling up a chair beside his two colleagues.
Graham shook his head. ‘We put the word out to our contacts yesterday and no one’s been back to us. She’s vanished, Boss.’
‘Nobody vanishes,’ Wilson said. ‘She’s seen the article in the Chronicle and she’s gone to ground. Maybe she thinks it’s going to blow over.’
‘There’s something weird about this one, Boss,’ Davidson said. ‘It just doesn’t feel right. I’ve never seen the snitches so nervous. Maybe McAuley has connections we don’t know about.’
‘Connections to whom?’ Wilson asked.
‘That’s the point,’ Graham said. ‘There’s nothing on her sheet that indicates upward connections.’
‘Then it’s another day of pounding the pavements for you two.’ Wilson stood. He saw the way that Graham and Davidson looked at each other. ‘If you reckon it’s a waste of time, then give me an alternative.’
Neither Graham nor Davidson spoke.
Wilson went to his office. He had fifteen minutes before the car was due to drive him, Browne and O’Neill to Aughnacloy and there was a mountain of admin to get through.
Artie Ward had had a sleepless night. He was cradling a cup of tea and flicking his eyes from the television news to the card sitting on the arm of his chair. Thirty years of burying his head when he saw something that he should report had made him super cautious about involving himself with the peelers. The devil on his left shoulder told him that nothing good could come of it while the angel on his right shoulder told him that he had a responsibility to contact the police about what he had seen the previous night. He wouldn’t have to give all the details. For instance, he wasn’t about to admit that he had got a good look at the men. He sipped his tea. He knew what his wife would have said, but she was made of better stuff than him. The memory of the woman he had spent forty years married to tipped the balance. He picked up the phone and called the number on the card.