by Derek Fee
‘What exactly are we looking at here?’ Wilson took a black marker and went to the board. ‘Josh McAuley arrives at the hospital half-dead from a beating and dies shortly after.’ He drew a line between a photograph of the boy and his mother. ‘His mother is a known prostitute and drug addict. We start a search for the mother to establish what happened to the child. She has disappeared. Then suddenly we find her dead in the squat she lived in with the boy.’ He wrote the word ‘SUICIDE’ on the board beside Gillian McAuley’s photo. ‘If it’s suicide, maybe she felt guilty for hurting the child and decided to end it all. If I bring this upstairs, that’s the conclusion that’ll satisfy the chief super. But where are the unidentified men in that scenario? If she decided to kill herself, why not crawl off to some corner alone and do it? Then we have the alternative.’ He wrote the word ‘MURDER’. ‘But now we have to consider motive. Why does someone want Gillian McAuley dead? It could be the child’s father for revenge. Do we know who the father is?’
‘She’s been on the game for years,’ Davidson said. ‘It could be anyone. If the father hasn’t been around for the past five years, why should he give a fiddler’s about the child now?’
Wilson put down the black marker. ‘Before I bring this upstairs, I want to know everything there is to know about Gillian McAuley. And I want to know who those men were. Take another run at this Ward guy.’
‘There was a street light a couple of yards away from the house,’ Davidson said. ‘There’s no way he didn’t get a good look at them.’
‘Two avenues of enquiry,’ Wilson said. ‘One the vice side, she’ll have women she partners with. Who’s her pimp? Find them. On the drugs side, who’s her supplier? If forensics can’t tell us what happened in that room, the two men are the only ones who can. We need to find them. Get Siobhan to check the CCTV. We’re done for today. Off home until tomorrow.’ He felt energised. Tomorrow he would be looking for a way to break down the wall separating him from Hanna and Keenan. He knew that he was unlikely to succeed.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Wilson was seated at a small table in the bar of the Fitzwilliam Hotel on Great Victoria Street. He sipped his pint of Guinness and watched the other patrons. There was obviously an event on at the hotel because half the men in the bar were dressed in tuxedos and the ladies in evening dresses. It was the kind of event he used to be invited to during his rugby-playing days. He always felt like a monkey in a cage and hated every second of them. The sophisticated surroundings of the five-star hotel were about as far away from his normal hostelry as you could get and he was feeling a little out of place. If he was entirely honest, however, his discomfort wasn’t related to the surroundings alone. Upstairs on the fifth floor, his lover was meeting with her mother for the first time in five years and he was there to support her.
As he gazed at the crowd, he saw Kate McCann enter from the lobby. He saw the flicker of recognition in her eyes and she stopped dead for a moment, throwing her male companion into confusion, before the smile quickly returned to her face and she and her companion continued their progress into the bar. Wilson was six feet four in his stocking feet and weighed in at two hundred pounds. It wasn’t exactly easy for him to fade into the background, but he was trying. Unsuccessfully as it turned out because Kate marched straight over to his table. He looked up into her face. She was as beautiful as ever, slim and her tan set off against a little black dress. He felt his heartbeat increasing. Getting rid of him had obviously cured whatever mental issues she’d had at the time.
‘Ian, how have you been?’
Wilson stood. There was no hand out for a handshake and the distance between them did not presage a reunion hug. ‘I’m well, Kate. And you?’
‘I’m fine.’ She turned to her male companion. ‘This is Superintendent Ian Wilson, Daniel.’ Then back to Wilson. ‘Have you met Daniel Lattimer?’
Wilson examined his replacement. Lattimer was slightly over six feet tall and slim. He was fine featured and his hair was already salt and peppered. His tuxedo fitted him like a glove and he gave off an air of supreme confidence. He had entered the bar as though he owned it, and by the look of him perhaps he did. Kate’s mother would certainly have approved. Wilson held out his hand and Lattimer took it in a firm shake. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ they said in unison.
‘We really should go in, Daniel.’ Kate took his arm. ‘The meal is about to be served and we don’t want to miss the opening speech.’
How very civilised, Wilson thought as he watched them sashay their way past the crowd at the bar. It was the kind of meeting that made one wonder whether a period of one’s life had been real or imaginary. If any strangers had witnessed the scene between him and Kate, would they believe that the couple had ever shared the same bed? There were many aspects of his life that Wilson wondered whether they were real or imaginary. He had the first Ulster and Ireland shirt he’d ever worn. The pictures of his wedding to Susan were the only proof that he had ever been married. So much of his past life now had a dreamlike quality. He had learned the hard way that the past didn’t count. And Kate McCann was a part of his past and the final chapter in that book had already been written. He sat back down and contemplated the drink on his table. He picked up the glass and drained it before signalling to the waiter for a refill.
His fresh pint had just arrived to his table when Reid and a lady who was obviously her mother entered the bar. Wilson, who would not claim to have psychic powers, thought he saw the figure of the Grim Reaper standing behind Reid’s mother. He stood as they approached. He could see from their eyes that both women had been crying and that his vision of Death had probably been accurate.
Reid tried a smile as she approached and it didn’t quite come off. He could see that what she really wanted was a hug so he opened his arms and took her in them. They separated. ‘Ian, this is my mother, Eileen.’
Wilson put out his hand and Reid’s mother took it. ‘Glad to meet you, Ian.’ The smile was as forced as Reid’s had been.
‘Can I get you ladies a drink?’ Wilson asked, trying to lighten the atmosphere.
‘Double gin and tonic,’ Reid said sitting down.
‘A tonic water, please,’ Eileen sat beside her daughter. ‘I can’t stay long. I’m pretty tired after the trip.’ There was no trace of a Northern Irish accent.
Wilson ordered the drinks. ‘I bet that Belfast has changed since you were here last,’ he asked Eileen. He was no expert on plastic surgery but she looked only about ten years older than her daughter. They had the same fine Nordic features and blonde hair. However, whatever disease was ravaging her showed in the pallor of her face, in the recessed eyes and most of all in the weak body.
The drinks arrived and Reid dumped her tonic into the glass of gin before downing half the contents.
‘It sure has.’ Eileen sipped her tonic. ‘Steph tells me that you guys are an item.’ Again the forced smile.
He smiled at Reid. ‘If she says so.’
‘I’m happy for you both. Her brother is married in Australia and has two beautiful children. I haven’t actually seen them but Steph has sent me some photos. We’re a pretty weird family. My ex-husband is in Africa so that’s four people living on four continents. You won’t find many families who are that spread out.’
‘Are you staying long?’ Wilson asked.
‘I’m leaving tomorrow morning. Aside from seeing Steph, there’s nothing for me here.’ She put out her hand and held her daughter’s. ‘We had a good talk and that’s all I came to do.’ She finished her tonic and stood up slowly. ‘Gosh, I didn’t realise I was so tired. It’s been emotional meeting Steph again.’ Wilson and Reid stood. ‘You guys stay and enjoy yourselves.’ She turned to Reid. ‘You still gonna run me to the airport tomorrow?’
There were tears in Reid’s eyes. ‘Absolutely.’ She hugged her mother.
Reid’s mother looked at Wilson. ‘You take care of my little girl, she’s precious.’ She turned and headed for the lift.
As
soon as she’d left, Reid signalled the waiter and ordered a refill. ‘She’s dying, Ian, pancreatic cancer, she only has weeks to live.’ The tears began to flow.
‘I know,’ he said, putting a comforting arm around her.
The waiter arrived with the refill. Reid prepared the drink and drank it in one swallow. ‘I don’t want to talk about it and I don’t want to stay here. Take me somewhere there are lots of people who are laughing and happy. I want to get drunk and then I want you to take me home and make love to me.’
Wilson paid the bill and put his hand out to her. He was wondering what Moira McElvaney would think. The hard-boiled Reid wasn’t so hard-boiled after all.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Wilson woke slowly. Reid was no longer in his bed but the smell from the kitchen of coffee and bacon led him to believe that she was still around somewhere. The previous evening was a bit of a blur. They had been drinking and dancing before returning to his apartment for some tender love-making. It seemed to him that something had cracked inside Reid. The conversation with her mother had touched a part of her that needed to be healed. He went to the bathroom and showered. He wasn’t looking forward to another frustrating day trying to conjure evidence against Hanna. By the time he reached the kitchen, the breakfast table had been set and he was presented with a plate of bacon and eggs with toast on the side, and a large pot of coffee.
‘Wow,’ he said, looking at the table. ‘What did I do to deserve this? And where the hell did all this stuff come from? The fridge was pretty empty the last time I looked.’
‘I went out.’ She took her seat and started on her eggs and bacon. ‘I’ve got to get to work and you mumbled something last night about having a funeral to go to.’
He almost did the clichéd slap to his forehead. Tom Kielty was being put into the ground after a church service in Aughnacloy. ‘You’re right, I promised Mrs Kielty that I’d attend.’ He started on his breakfast. ‘That was some blowout last night.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Is Gillian McAuley scheduled for autopsy today?’ he asked.
‘I’m dropping my mother to the airport so my schedule is a little messed up. She was probably scheduled for this morning, but it might slip to this afternoon.’
‘Will you give Harry a call and let him know. I’d like to have him there.’
She forked the last portion of her breakfast into her mouth and looked at him. ‘You don’t buy the suicide theory?’
‘It’s a bit too convenient. We’re looking for her for the death of her son and she tops herself. That makes life very easy for us. We have a ready-made killer.’
She sipped her coffee. ‘Dead men can’t talk.’
He pushed his empty plate away. ‘Something like that.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ She stood up and looked at the dirty dishes. ‘I made it, you clean it.’ She bent and kissed him on the lips. ‘Thanks for last night. I’ll take a special look at McAuley.’
Wilson cleared away the table and filled the dishwasher. He took out his mobile phone to message Graham about McAuley’s autopsy and saw that he had received a message. He remembered he had put his phone on silent in the Fitzwilliam. The message from McDevitt was short: What about my binoculars? What the hell was McDevitt talking about? He texted Graham about the autopsy taking place in the afternoon and was about to put the phone away when it hit him like a bombshell. He had returned McDevitt’s notebook and pen the previous day as the only items found in the field. Nobody mentioned binoculars. He looked at his watch. It was five minutes past eight. The service in Aughnacloy wasn’t until ten o’clock. He called Browne and O’Neill and told them to meet him at the station by eight thirty. Then he called the station and told the desk sergeant to have the car ready at half past eight. They would pass by the Royal Victoria on their way.
McDevitt was seated on the chair beside his bed eating a boiled egg and toast when Wilson and Browne entered his room. ‘I thought you were coming this evening?’
Wilson took out his phone. ‘Did you send me this message last night?’
McDevitt took the phone and looked at it. ‘After you left, I realised that you hadn’t returned the binoculars with the notebook and pen and I was wondering if you were holding on to them for some reason.’
‘You had binoculars when you were in the field?’
‘Of course I had, I wanted to get a good look at the bastards. Mind you, they were the last thing on my mind until you returned the notebook and pen yesterday.’
Wilson took out a paper from his pocket. ‘This is the statement that you made to the officer I sent. There’s no mention of binoculars.’
McDevitt stood up. ‘No and I bet that there’s no mention of the notebook or pen either. They weren’t exactly the first things on my mind.’
This time McDevitt sat on the edge of the bed and Wilson took the chair, Browne had removed his notebook and was recording the interview. ‘OK,’ Wilson said when he was settled. ‘Tell me about the binoculars.’
‘I knew it was going to be night and in an area where there are no lights. I anticipated that there would be a lot of front pages ahead if Kielty’s information proved accurate so I invested in a set of night-vision binoculars. I wanted to get a good look at the principals.’
‘And where did you buy these binoculars?’
‘In an army-surplus shop just off Donegall Square.’
‘Do you remember the specific make?’
‘Absolutely, the guy in the shop told me they were the top model he had on sale. They were called Night Owl Optics and they cost me four hundred quid.’
‘And when was the last time that you saw them?’
‘When the shit hit the fan and Kielty started running, I followed him. I have no recollection of dropping the notebook and pen so I have no recollection of dropping the binoculars. The last place I remember having them was on the edge of the field as we were watching the meeting between Hanna and the guy whose photo you showed me, Keenan. When you think that your life is in danger you tend to throw away anything that doesn’t make you run faster.’
‘Do you think that the guy in the shop who sold you the binoculars will remember you?’
‘Better than that, I kept the bill so I could put it through as an expense. It’s in my accounts file in my house.’
‘Now think carefully,’ Wilson said. ‘Did the binoculars have a serial number on them?’
‘Aye, the guy in the shop wrote a number that was on the binoculars onto the receipt. I have a copy and so does he.’
Wilson and Browne looked at each other, no binoculars had been found during either the Forensic investigation or the police search of the field. Assuming that no smart-arsed police officer had pocketed the binoculars, it could only mean that they were taken by whoever fired the shots in the field. They needed urgently to verify that no officer removed the binoculars. Wilson knew that Browne was thinking what he was thinking. ‘You know what to do?’
Browne closed his notebook and went outside. The chief of the Forensic team and the sergeant in charge of the uniforms wouldn’t be happy to have their integrity impugned but to hell with that. Wilson needed to know that McDevitt’s binoculars might be somewhere in Hanna’s farmhouse.
‘I’m going to send the officer who took your statement back to see you, and you’ll give an amended statement, adding in the fact that you dropped the notebook, pen and binoculars as you ran.’ Wilson held out his hand. ‘I’ll need the keys to your house and details of where I can find this accounts file.’
McDevitt pointed at the wardrobe beside his bed. ‘They cut off my clothes when they brought me in. There was a mountain of cowshit and blood to get rid of, but they might be in there. There’s a filing cabinet in my study and you’ll find the file there.’
Wilson saw that there were no clothes in the wardrobe. He stood up, left the room and went to the nurse’s station. An older nurse wearing a different uniform than the others was seated inside a
counter. She had the stern look of someone who is in charge and knows it. He produced his warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Wilson, I’m interviewing Mr McDevitt. I need his personal effects.’
She emitted a deep sigh, stood up and looked round the ward. A young nurse happened to be passing by. ‘Nurse,’ the woman in charge shouted. ‘Find Mr McDevitt’s personal effects and give them to this policeman.’
The nurse hurried away and Wilson immediately removed himself back to McDevitt’s room, where the patient was already engrossed in the Chronicle.
‘I’m off the front page,’ he said as Wilson entered.
‘Thanks be to God, I was getting tired reading about what a brave reporter you are. Didn’t any of your colleagues work out that you were shot in the back while running away?’
McDevitt chuckled. ‘My street creds have gone through the ceiling now I’ve been shot. I got a message from my agent, I’ve been booked on the BBC’s Breakfast programme and he’s negotiating with ITV.’
‘Maybe they’ll put you on Ant and Dec or the X Factor?’
‘You think?’
‘No, I bloody well don’t.’
The young nurse who had been sent to find McDevitt’s personal effects entered the room and handed a Jiffy bag to Wilson. He put his hand inside and pulled out McDevitt’s keys, then passed the envelope to McDevitt. ‘I’ve got to go. Kielty’s funeral is in an hour.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
A funeral in rural Ireland is not a simple matter. Wilson had declined an invitation to the laying out in the Kielty home as he saw enough death in his job. The laying out involved neighbours and interested onlookers viewing the corpse in an open coffin and then expressing their condolences to the family. It generally ended with a couple of drinks in a local hostelry. The funeral itself involved not only the principal mourners but also everyone who had ever known Tom Kielty and many others who had never met the man. Every employer in Ireland knows that attendance at a funeral is much more important than a lousy oul day’s work.